Chapter 8 #2
I wave once, just a small lift of my fingers, and he flashes his brights in return before easing away from the curb. I sit there for a moment, the engine cooling, the silence of the car wrapping around me.
I can still smell him on my skin—vanilla, burnt sugar, and the musky scent of our sex. It clings to my sweater and my hair, a delicious, illicit perfume.
Sighing, I grab my phone and climb out. The cold air nips at my nose, but I don’t feel it as much as I usually do. There’s a warmth humming beneath my skin that has nothing to do with the car’s heater.
I let myself into the house as quietly as possible. The living room is dim, lit only by the blue glow of the television, which has been left on a static-filled channel.
Jude is sprawled out on the sofa, one arm thrown over his face, the other dangling toward the floor. He’s deep asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady pattern. Rufus is curled into a tight ball at his feet, not even twitching an ear at my entrance.
I tiptoe past them, holding my breath. I feel a twinge of guilt as I move. I know Jude worries. I know Ryker and Norah would have welcomed me staying, but I needed this. I needed this night for myself.
As I pass the hallway table, I catch a whiff of Jude’s scent. It’s a comforting, familial smell, but it clashes with the scent of Eli that’s wrapped around me like a cloak.
For a second, the two scents battle in the air, and my heart hammers. It feels like I’m carrying a giant sign that screams I just had sex.
I make it past my brother without waking anyone. I lock the back door, checking the handle twice, then head for my bedroom.
Inside, the room is quiet, the only sound Maisie’s soft, even breathing. I stand by the bed for a long moment, looking down at my sleeping daughter.
Her red glasses are folded on the nightstand, and Frida the rabbit is tucked under her chin.
I really need to change. My jeans feel stiff, and my sweater is rumpled from our activities against the cooler door.
But as I reach for the hem of my shirt, I pause. If I change, if I shower, I’ll wash him away. I’ll wash away the best night I’ve had in years.
Biting my lip, I peel off the sweater and the jeans. I press the fabric to my nose one last time, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and Eli.
Instead of tossing them into the hamper, I bury them at the very bottom, underneath the dirty towels and Maisie’s school uniforms.
I’ll wash them tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. For now, I want to keep this little piece of the night hidden away, a secret treasure tucked between the dirty laundry.
I quickly pull on a pair of flannel pajama pants and an old T-shirt, the fabric soft and scentless. I slide under the covers, the cold sheets shocking my warm skin for a second before I adjust to the temperature.
“Mom?”
The whisper is so faint I almost miss it. I roll over to face Maisie. Her eyes are open, just slits in the dark, heavy with sleep.
“Yeah, bug?” I whisper back, reaching out to brush a curl away from her forehead.
“Did you find the dragons?” she mumbles, her voice thick and dreamy.
I smile, my heart swelling with a love so fierce it almost hurts. “I did. They’re sleeping now. Just like you.”
“Okay.”
She shifts closer, burrowing into my side. I wrap my arm around her small, warm body, pulling her in tight. She smells like lavender shampoo and that specific, sweet scent that only belongs to my child.
I lie there in the dark, listening to her breathe, feeling the steady beat of her heart against my ribs. The fear from the morning, the panic of the phone call, the shame of the near-relapse—it all feels distant now. Muted.
I think about Eli’s hands, his laugh, the way he looked at me when he said I was beautiful. I think about the way he massaged the knot, trusting me with his vulnerability.
The noise in my head has gone silent. There is no Luke. There is no past.
There is just the warmth of my daughter in my arms and the memory of a baker who makes cinnamon buns that taste like forgiveness.
I press a kiss to the top of Maisie’s head.
“Goodnight, my love,” I whisper into the dark.
She doesn’t answer, already deep in the dream world again. I close my eyes, and for the first time in forever, I don’t dream of monsters.
I just sleep, safe and content.
The cursor on my phone screen blinks at me, seemingly to mock my indecision. I’ve been staring at this text thread for three days.
Three days since the kitchen, since the cinnamon buns, since Eli’s hands were on me and the world narrowed down to the smell of sugar and the feel of his skin.
Hey.
I type it out. My thumb hovers over the send button. It’s too casual. It’s pathetic.
I delete it.
Thanks again for the other night. It was really nice.
Too formal. Sounds like a thank-you note for a gift basket.
Delete.
I can’t stop thinking about the buns.
I groan and toss my phone onto the workbench, where it lands with a clatter among the pile of silver dollar eucalyptus stems I’m stripping. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to scrub the image of his face out of my mind.
But it’s no use. I can still see the way his hair looked when he ran his hands through it, the way his glasses slipped down his nose, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
I don’t know what to say to him. I’ve never been good at this—the aftermath. With Luke, it was always fighting or making up, a volatile cycle I knew how to navigate.
With Eli, there is no cycle. There’s just… quiet. And that quiet is terrifying.
“You look like you’re trying to burn a hole in that wood with your mind.”
I jump, spinning around. Norah is standing in the doorway to the office, leaning against the frame.
She’s cradling a massive ceramic mug that reads I’m A Succa For Plants. Steam rises from the rim, carrying the scent of peppermint and chamomile.
“I’m fine,” I say, a little too quickly. “Just thinking.”
“About?” She takes a sip, her eyes narrowing over the rim of the mug. “You’ve been a million miles away all week. Distracted. Jumpy.”
“Just work,” I lie, turning back to my eucalyptus. “The winter orders are piling up. Trying to stay ahead of the inventory.”
Norah hums, a sound that says she doesn’t quite believe me but is willing to let it slide for now. She sets the mug down on the counter and stretches her arms above her head.
The movement pulls the fabric of her red dress tight across her stomach. The belly bump is undeniable now, a rounded curve that she loves to rest her hands on.
The dress is beautiful—a deep, vibrant red that makes her skin glow, paired with black ankle boots and thick tights. She looks gorgeous. Radiant.
But she also looks miserable.
“Are you okay?” I ask, watching her fan herself with a sheaf of order forms. “You look flushed.”
“I’m fine,” she echoes my earlier sentiment, though her voice is tight. “Just… warm. Again.”
I frown. “Is the tea not working anymore?”
She sighs, picking her mug back up. “Miss Thea’s blend worked wonders for the first few days.
But lately…” She shakes her head. “The mini-heats are coming back with a vengeance. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.
I’ve got the AC unit in the bedroom dialed down to sixty-five degrees, and I’m still sweating. ”
She walks over to the thermostat on the wall and fiddles with it, even though the digital display already reads sixty-eight. “Ryker says it’s normal. The pregnancy hormones are amplifying everything.”
“It sounds exhausting,” I say gently.
“It is.” She offers me a weak smile. “But we manage.”
“So, where are you going all dressed up?”
“Dorian is taking me out,” she says, and despite the discomfort, her eyes light up. “A real date. He won’t tell me where, just said to wear something warm and comfortable.”
“He’s good at that,” I note, stripping a particularly stubborn leaf from a stem. “Taking care of you.”
“He is.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “He should be here any minute. He’s picking me up from here so we can go straight to… wherever we’re going.”
As if on cue, the front door chimes. Dorian walks in, looking rugged and handsome in a heavy coat and jeans.
His eyes scan the room, landing instantly on Norah. The adoration on his face is so palpable it makes the air in the shop feel thick.
“Hey,” he says, crossing the room to her. He reaches out, resting a hand on her lower back, and leans in to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful, Norah.”
“Thanks, babe,” she says, leaning into his touch. “Ready?”
“Whenever you are.”
They say their goodbyes, waving at me as they head out into the late afternoon gloom. The door closes behind them, and the shop falls back into silence.
I stand there for a moment, listening to the quiet. I’m happy for her, truly. They deserve every bit of joy they’ve found. But seeing them together, so solid and sure, stirs up that familiar ache in my chest.
The contrast between their relationship and the mess I left behind in Maple Glen is jarring.
Shaking it off, I turn my attention back to the eucalyptus. I have a large order for a wedding tomorrow—centerpieces heavy on the silver dollar and white roses.
It’s tedious work, stripping the leaves, cutting the stems at an angle.
The snow has finally stopped falling, melting into slush in the gutters. With the roads clear, the wedding inquiries have flooded in. It’s a deluge of lace, satin, and ribbons.
I’m grateful, though. The work keeps my hands busy and my mind occupied.
When I’m elbow-deep in hydrangeas and trying to source the perfect shade of ivory ribbon, I don’t have time to think about Luke’s voice on the phone. I don’t have time to wonder if his new girlfriend is happily rubbing her belly.
I work for an hour, the sun beginning to dip lower in the sky. My back aches, and my eyes are gritty from fatigue.