Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Eli
It takes a solid two minutes for the world to stop spinning and for my senses to realign after that collision. I stand there in the aisle, blinking, the smell of broken wine filling my nose.
My glasses are slightly askew, so I take them off and wipe the lenses on the hem of my shirt, trying to process what just happened.
One minute, I was reaching for a bottle of merlot for a reduction I wanted to test tonight, and the next, a hurricane in a sweater slammed into my cart, sending glass flying everywhere.
Amber.
The name rolls around in my head. I’ve seen her. I know I have. Fox Hollow is small enough that you recognize faces, even if you haven’t spoken.
Knightly Blooms. She’s the one with the intense eyes and the hands that are always gentle with the stems.
But just now… she looked like she was running from a fire. The panic in her gaze was visceral, a raw thing that made my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention.
She ran out. She actually fled.
I look down at the puddle of purple liquid spreading across the linoleum. A store employee is already approaching with a mop and a caution sign, looking less than thrilled about the mess.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the cashier, a woman named Martha whose name tag is pinned slightly crooked to her vest. I gesture to the few items remaining in my cart—butter, heavy cream, a bundle of thyme. “I need to pay for these. I’ll be right back to help clean up the glass.”
Martha waves a dismissive hand, scanning a barcode for a customer in line ahead of me. “Don’t worry about it, Eli. Go do what you need to do. Bobby’s got the glass.”
I nod my thanks, abandoning the cart near the register. I don’t care about the wine. I care about the woman who looked like she was on the verge of shattering completely.
Stepping outside, the cold air hits me like a physical weight. It’s brisk, the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones.
Snow is melting in the gutters, turning the pavement into a slick gray slush. I scan the parking lot, my eyes narrowing as I search for her.
I spot her car immediately. It’s a sedan, older than I am, with a dent in the rear bumper and a mismatched hubcap. It’s parked just two spots down from my SUV, the engine idling roughly, a plume of blue smoke sputtering from the tailpipe.
Lucky break.
If she’d parked at the far end of the lot, I might have missed her. But she’s right there. I can see her silhouette through the windshield, slumped forward.
I walk quickly to my car, opening the rear hatch to retrieve my emergency kit. Every chef and baker I know keeps one in their vehicle; you never know when you’ll need a knife, a spare apron, or in this case, medical supplies.
My kit is a sturdy canvas tote with a red cross stitched on the side. I unzip it and do a quick inventory.
Alcohol wipes—check. Sterile gauze pads—check. Medical tape—check. A small tube of antibiotic ointment—check. And a bandage.
I zip it back up and sling the strap over my shoulder. The walk to her car feels longer than it should, the wind cutting through my coat.
When I reach the driver’s side window, I hesitate for just a second. I don’t want to startle her again. She was already jumpy enough to knock over a display of wine.
I rap my knuckles gently against the glass. Tap, tap, tap.
The silhouette jerks. Slowly, the window rolls down. The heater in her car is blasting full force, carrying with it the scent of old upholstery and… her.
Up close, she’s even prettier than I realized from a distance. Her long lashes are spiked with tears, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold or the crying.
Her eyes are hazel—striking, multifaceted green and gold that seem to shift with the light. They match the chunky knit sweater she’s wearing perfectly. Her chestnut hair is a wild mess of waves, partly escaping a bun that’s seen better days.
She looks at me, wide-eyed, like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“Amber?” I keep my voice low, soft.
“Eli,” she breathes out, her shoulders dropping an inch. She looks down at her hands, which are gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are white. “I… I’m so sorry about running off. I just… I panicked.”
“It happens,” I assure her. I gesture toward her hand. “You’re bleeding.”
She glances down at her palm as if noticing the injury for the first time. A thin line of red is welling up from a jagged cut near her thumb. “Oh. It’s nothing. Really.”
“I insist,” I tell her, holding up the canvas bag. “I have a kit. Please. It would make me feel a hell of a lot better if you let me fix it.”
She looks at the bag, then back at my face. Her eyes search mine, looking for something—malice, judgment, annoyance. She won’t find any of those things. I just want to help.
Finally, she nods, reaching for the door lock. Click.
“Okay.”
I wait as she leans over to the passenger seat to move a large paper bag stamped with the Lorelai’s Bakery logo. The smell of cinnamon and sugar wafts out, mixing with her scent.
I open the door and slide into the passenger seat. The suspension of her old car groans under my weight. It’s a tight fit; I’m not a huge guy, but the interior of this sedan feels like it was built for hobbits. My knees bump against the dashboard.
I turn toward her, the kit resting on my lap.
Up close, I can smell her so clearly. Beneath the tears and the stress, there is the scent of jasmine—sweet, heady, undeniably Omega.
But layered over that is the metallic smell of rain.
It’s the scent of distress, of cold misery.
My instincts bristle. Something bad happened today. Something before she ran into me.
“Give me your hand,” I murmur.
She hesitates, then extends her right arm. Her hand is small, her fingers slender. There’s a small inked phoenix on her wrist, fresh and vibrant, the skin around it still red.
I take her hand gently in mine. Her skin is ice cold. I cup my other hand over hers, trying to transfer some warmth before I even start cleaning the wound.
“You’re freezing,” I note.
“I’m okay,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just the shock.”
I open the kit and pull out an alcohol wipe. I meet her eyes. “This is going to sting.”
“I can handle it,” she says, though I can feel her trembling slightly.
I dab the wipe against the cut. She flinches, the intake of breath hissing through her teeth, but she doesn’t pull away. I hate that I’m causing her more pain, even if it’s necessary.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. It’s my own fault.”
I clean the dried blood away, revealing a shallow but long slice. It needs to be closed so it doesn’t open every time she uses her hand.
“So,” I start, tearing open a packet of antibiotic ointment with my teeth. “That wine I broke? It was actually going to be for a new dish that I’m working on. Lamb chops with a red wine and thyme reduction.”
She looks up from our hands to my face. She’s listening intently, her focus shifting from the pain to my words.
“Lamb chops?” she repeats.
“Yeah. We get these heritage breeds from a farm up north. The meat is incredible, but it needs something bold to cut through the richness.” I apply the ointment gently, smoothing it over the angry red line.
“I sear the chops in a cast iron, get a really hard crust on them. Then I deglaze the pan with the wine, scraping up all those browned bits—the fond. That’s where the flavor lives.
Add some garlic, a sprig of fresh thyme, let it reduce until it’s syrupy.
I like to experiment with the spices I grow, just to test out the quality. ”
I watch her as I speak. Her lips are slightly parted, her gaze fixed on mine. Her lips look incredibly soft, even when she worries the lower one between her teeth. She has a mouth that seems designed for smiling, even though she hasn’t done much of that today.
“It sounds… really good,” she says.
“It is. If done right.” I place a sterile pad over the cut and start wrapping it with the medical tape. My fingers brush against her wrist, right over the tattoo. “The wine adds this depth that balances the fat of the lamb. It’s a classic combination for a reason.”
I secure the tape and smooth it down with my thumb. “There. All good.”
She flexes her hand, testing the bandage. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” I lean back against the seat, but I don’t open the door. I should leave. I should get back to the store, pay for my groceries, and get to the restaurant to start prep. Knox is probably wondering where the hell I am.
But I don’t move.
I’ve never felt an attraction like this before. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, though she is. It’s something else. A pull. A gravity. I just want to sit here and look at her. I want to understand why she smells like rain. I want to know what put that terrified look in her eyes earlier.
Staring at her in her car like a creep would be weird, though. So I cast around for something else to say, anything to keep the conversation going.
My eyes land on the bakery bag on the back seat. “What did you get? From Lorelai’s?”
Amber follows my gaze. “Cinnamon sugar cookies. Cora makes them with this thick glaze that cracks when you bite into it. And… I think a loaf of that pumpkin bread.”
“Excellent choices,” I tell her sincerely. “Cora is a master of sugar. But,” I lower my voice conspiratorially, “I know a recipe for cinnamon buns that would rival those cookies.”
She looks at me, a skeptical brow raising. “No way.”
“Yes way,” I laugh. The sound feels easy between us.
“It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother, Nai Nai, taught me.
We start with a brioche dough, let it rise overnight.
Then, you brush it with this brown butter and cinnamon filling—lots of cinnamon, enough to make you sneeze.
You roll it tight, cut them thick, and bake them until they’re golden.
The secret is the cream cheese glaze. You add a pinch of salt to cut the sweet. It changes everything.”