10. Nothing But Empty Space
Chapter ten
Nothing But Empty Space
Sutton
The late-summer sun scorched the concrete of the Driftwood Blooms loading dock.
Heat radiated upward through the rubber soles of my boots, baking the stagnant air around the delivery van.
The diesel engine idled in the driveway, kicking up a gritty cloud of exhaust that coated the back of my throat.
I stood near the edge of the platform, the rough wood of the clipboard digging into my palm.
A bead of sweat stung the corner of my eye.
I blinked the sting away and dragged the tip of my pen across the carbon-copy manifest. The yellow paper curled at the edges from the coastal humidity.
“Forty stems down,” I muttered, scratching the ink into the paper. “Ten more hydrangeas to go.”
I checked the tally against the first stack of inventory boxes.
The afternoon heat was relentless, turning the open yard into an oppressive oven.
The scent of cut greenery mixed with the lingering diesel fumes.
I shifted my stance on the concrete, trying to relieve the dull ache building in my lower back.
A sudden, sharp kick drummed against my lower ribs.
I paused, the pen hovering over the page, and let out a breathless laugh.
The baby shifted again, a rolling flutter beneath the faded denim of my overalls.
I dropped my free hand to rest over my belly.
The solid weight grounded me in the blistering afternoon.
We were racing the calendar. The third trimester loomed closer every single day, bringing the reality of my impending maternity leave.
Ruby had taken a chance trusting me with the wholesale accounts, and I refused to leave her stranded.
I needed to pad my own savings before I became too unwieldy to haul these orders.
Every stem processed on this dock meant real money in the bank for the baby growing inside me.
I rubbed my thumb over the coarse fabric, making a silent promise to finish the shift.
I dragged the back of my wrist across my sweaty forehead.
The local driver hopped up onto the dock in his bright safety vest. He hoisted another box from the metal staging table.
His work boots scuffed the cement as he walked toward the van.
I stepped into his path, pointing toward the deep shadow cast by the metal shed.
“Ruby wants these ranunculus crates kept out of the direct sunlight, please,” I said, tapping the pen against the board. “They will wilt in ten minutes if they sit out here.”
The driver adjusted his grip on the wood, panting in the heat. “I’m moving them into the shade right now, ma’am.” He nodded toward the far corner of the loading zone. “Do you want me to load the rest of the empty buckets into the back of the van?”
I surveyed the scattered black floral buckets cluttering the edge of the dock. They smelled like damp soil and crushed leaves, and the bulky tubs took up valuable prep space.
“Yes, please take the empties,” I said. “I’ll sign the final invoice as soon as we finish loading the cooler.”
The driver grunted his agreement and hauled the ranunculus into the shade. I turned my attention back to the remaining inventory, determined to clear the dock before the afternoon sun baked the rest of the stems.
I wiped the sweat from the back of my neck, fighting the stifling coastal humidity.
A shadow fell across the hot concrete. Declan stepped up onto the loading dock, wiping a streak of grease from his forearm.
His faded T-shirt stuck to his chest from the sweltering heat of the fields.
He didn’t hesitate, walking directly toward the remaining stacks of boxes.
“Let me get the rest of these for you,” Declan offered, his voice low over the rumble of the diesel engine.
“Always,” I said, letting out a long breath. “Let’s get the hydrangeas into the cooler before they drop their petals.”
Declan nodded, rolling his shoulders back. He grabbed the largest crate, grunting as he hoisted it off the cement. His tattooed forearms flexed under the strain, bearing the dead weight without a single complaint.
As he maneuvered the bulky container, my shoulders dropped. I loosened my tight grip on the clipboard. I didn’t have to haul those bottom bins myself.
I followed him to the open doors of the refrigerated transport van. An icy blast of air escaped the dark cargo hold, hitting my face and arms in a sudden, shocking rush of relief. I stood by the metal tailboard, clicking my pen to check the paper tags stapled to the wood.
“Watch your step around the tailboard,” Declan warned, shifting his weight to balance the crate.
“I’ve got the tags,” I said, leaning closer to read the ink. “Slide it in.”
He shoved the crate deep into the chilled interior of the truck.
We fell into a steady, practiced rhythm.
He hauled the bins; I verified the shipping manifests.
Over the last four months, we had fine-tuned this loading process to keep Ruby’s operation running like a perfect science.
Declan never tried to take over the clipboard or dictate the layout.
He simply provided the reliable muscle, letting me manage the logistics.
It was a far cry from Los Angeles. In that massive mansion, every relationship I had was transactional and controlled.
Even my marriage had buckled under the weight of handlers and schedules.
Here, in the dirt and the heat, partnership meant sharing the load without demanding the spotlight.
I mentally recalculated the truck’s weight distribution, crossing the final hydrangeas off the list as Declan climbed into the back of the van.
He grabbed the cargo straps from the wall of the cabin.
“I’ve got the last three crates of hydrangeas secured in the back,” Declan said, pulling the tie-downs taut over the wood. He stepped out of the chilled air and back onto the hot concrete. “You need to sit down for a minute, Sutton. You’ve been on your feet all morning.”
“I’ll sit down as soon as this truck pulls out of the driveway,” I said, snapping the pen into the clip. “Ruby would have my head if we lost this shipment, so just make sure the tie-downs are tight.”
Declan hooked the final strap into the cargo rail, securing the excess strap.
“They’re locked in,” Declan said, wiping the dust from his forehead. “I’ll grab you a bottle of cold water from the cooler while the driver finishes up.”
“Thank you,” I said, letting the clipboard rest against my hip.
He jumped down from the dock, and I took a brief, quiet moment to appreciate the completed manifest.
The steady rhythm of the shift broke. The distinct, grating crunch of tires crawling over the rutted driveway echoed across the yard. This wasn’t the rattling hum of a wholesale delivery truck. The engine note was a low, expensive purr that did not belong in the rural valley.
I turned away from the refrigerated van, my pen pausing over the clipboard.
A sleek, black SUV rolled into the clearing, its glossy paint jarring against the backdrop of the dusty farmyard. The vehicle ignored the designated visitor lot and pulled up to the edge of the active loading zone. The exhaust churned a fresh cloud of dry grit into the summer heat.
Declan stepped to the edge of the concrete platform, holding an empty bucket.
“Looks like we’ve got a lost tourist,” Declan said, squinting through the dust. “Nobody drives a rig like that out here unless they missed the turnoff for the vineyards.”
The driver’s side door swung open. He stepped out, planting his dress shoe into the loose dirt.
The air caught in my throat. I held my ground on the concrete. My grip on the clipboard faltered. I snapped the pen under the aluminum clip, dropping my free hand across my torso. My palm clamped flat over the bib of my overalls, shielding the round swell of my belly.
Hayes stepped away from the vehicle, leaving the door hanging open.
He wore designer clothes—a crisp jacket and expensive trousers that looked ridiculous against the dirt and the tractors.
The Los Angeles machine had tracked me down.
The safe, predictable life Ruby had allowed me to build over the last four months felt instantly threatened the second he stepped onto the gravel.
He pushed the car door shut. He turned toward the loading dock, looking up.
He took a few hesitant steps forward.
He scanned the platform, finding my face, before his gaze dropped lower.
He stopped dead, his dress shoes halting in the dirt.
His posture shifted, his shoulders going rigid as he stared at the undeniable mound of my stomach.
He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. The camera-ready confidence dissolved.
He just stood there, staring at my swollen belly as if he couldn’t process the reality of it.
The nerve of him tracking his circus onto this quiet property made my chest ache. While he was parading on red carpets and posing for tabloids, I had been building a real life for the child he was currently staring at.
Declan frowned, tossing the empty bucket onto the table. He took a step closer to me, his broad shoulders shifting to block the gap between the stairs and the van.
“I think we just got a visitor, Sutton,” Declan said, keeping his eyes fixed on the man frozen in the driveway. “Looks like someone took a wrong turn off the highway in that fancy rental.”
I gripped the edge of the clipboard until the wood bit into my skin. I did not break eye contact with the man in the dirt.
“He didn’t take a wrong turn, Declan,” I said. “That’s my husband.”
I clamped my hand tighter over my belly, trying to shield the baby from him.
Declan shifted his weight on the dock. His eyes flicked from Hayes back to me.
“You want me to tell the driver to cut the engine?” Declan asked, raising his voice over the exhaust. “It’s hard to hear out here.”
“Leave the engine running,” I said.