Chapter 8 #3
It’s Friday evening. All I want to do is finish this arrangement, lock up, pick up Maisie, and go home. Maybe we can order a pizza and watch a movie. Just a quiet night.
I’m in the backroom, checking the stock of floral foam, when I hear the bell above the front door jingle.
“Coming!” I shout, stripping off my gardening gloves and tossing them onto the table.
I wipe my hands on my apron, trying to smooth down my hair. I probably look a wreck—dustings of potting soil on my jeans, my hair escaping its bun, my face flushed from the exertion.
I walk down the short hallway, a prepared customer service smile fixed on my face. “Hi, welcome to Knightly Blooms, how can I—”
I stop dead.
The smile freezes, then falters, then melts away into something completely different.
Eli is standing just inside the door.
He looks incredible. He’s wearing a dark green cable-knit sweater that brings out the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, paired with dark jeans and a heavy wool coat draped over his shoulders.
His glasses are perched on his nose, and his hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it.
And in his hands, he’s holding a white cardboard box tied up with twine.
“Elijah,” I breathe. My heart does a complicated flip in my chest, part excitement, part anxiety.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he replies. His voice is low and warm, washing over me like a thermal blanket.
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. He raises a hand, his thumb brushing against my cheek. I flinch slightly, but I don’t pull away.
“You’ve got a little… mud,” he murmurs, his thumb swiping gently just below my eye.
His touch is electric. A spark jumps from his skin to mine, igniting a fire that spreads through my veins like liquid heat.
My knees feel weak, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. He’s so close. I can smell him—vanilla, burnt sugar, and that distinct Alpha scent that makes my head spin.
“How are you?” he asks, dropping his hand but not stepping away. His eyes roam over my face, taking me in.
“Good,” I manage to squeak out. “Busy. You?”
“Same.” He shifts his weight, glancing around the shop before his eyes lock back onto mine. “You never texted me.”
The words hang in the air between us. They aren’t an accusation, just a statement of fact. But I feel the guilt rise in my throat anyway.
“Sorry,” I whisper, looking down at my boots. “I didn’t… I didn’t know what to say.”
“Don’t be,” he says immediately. He reaches out, tilting my chin up until I have to look at him. “I get it. It was an… intense night. Sometimes you need to process that alone.”
His understanding is almost worse than judgment. It makes my chest tight.
“I still thought about you, though,” he adds, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips. “A lot.” He lifts the box he’s holding and sets it down on the counter between us. “I made these. I just… I thought of you. And I wanted you to have them.”
I look at the box, then up at him. “What is it?”
“Open it.”
I untie the twine, my fingers fumbling slightly. I lift the lid.
Inside, nestled in a bed of parchment paper, are half a dozen perfect, golden-yellow tarts. The shells are a deep, buttery brown, the filling is a smooth, glistening lemon curd, and each one is topped with a dollop of pristine white whipped cream and a curl of lemon zest.
My breath catches in my throat. Lemon tarts.
“Lemon tarts,” I say, my voice trembling. “You remembered.”
“I remember you saying they were your favorite,” he says, leaning against the counter. “And I remember you saying your daughter likes them too. Maisie, right?”
I nod, unable to speak. He remembered. He remembered a casual comment I made in the middle of a kitchen while I was half-naked and overwhelmed. He remembered, and he acted on it.
“These look… Eli, these look professional. They look amazing.”
“They taste better than they look,” he says confidently. “The curd is made with Meyer lemons. They’re sweeter than regular lemons, less acidic. I think you’ll like them.”
I pick up the box, the scent of fresh lemon wafting up to greet me. It’s bright and cheerful, cutting right through the gloom I’ve been carrying around all week.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Really. This is… this is incredibly thoughtful.”
“I wanted to see you,” he admits, his voice dropping an octave. “The tarts were just an excuse. I wanted to make sure you were okay. After the other night, I didn’t want you to… regret it.”
I look at him—this kind, gorgeous, thoughtful man who brought me lemon tarts just because he thought of me. The fear that has been choking me for three days loosens its grip.
“I don’t regret it,” I tell him firmly. “I was scared. I’m still scared. But I don’t regret it.”
Eli lets out a breath he seems to have been holding. “Good. That’s… really good to hear.”
He looks around the shop again, which is now dimly lit as the sun sets behind the buildings. “Do you have to close up soon?”
I glance at the clock. “Yeah. I need to pick up Maisie from Jude’s.”
“I can walk you to your car,” he offers. “And maybe… if you’re not busy tomorrow? I have a new recipe for a chocolate tart with sea salt. I need a critic.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Is that your way of asking me on a date, Elijah?”
“It’s my way of asking for a professional opinion,” he teases, though his eyes are serious. “But if it happens to be a date, I wouldn’t be opposed.”
I look down at the box of lemon tarts in my hands. I think about Luke, about the fear, about the walls I’ve built. And then I think about Eli wiping mud off my cheek.
“I’d like that,” I say softly. “I think Maisie would love to be a critic, too.”
Eli’s grin widens. “Then it’s a date. I’ll text you the details.”
“You’ll text me?”
“Text me when you get home so that I have your number.” He taps the side of his head. “I’m not letting you get away that easy again.”
I walk him to the door, unlocking it. The cold air rushes in, but I don’t feel it as much this time.
“Goodnight, Amber,” he says, hesitating at the threshold. “What’s your last name, sweetheart?”
“Carter.”
“Gorgeous.”
“What’s yours?”
He smiles. “Chen.”
I smile back. “Goodnight, Eli.”
“Goodnight, Amber.”
He walks out to his SUV, turning back to wave once before he gets in. I watch him drive away, the box of tarts clutched against my chest like a shield.
Back inside the quiet shop, I set the box down on the counter. I take out one of the tarts and take a bite.
The crust shatters perfectly, buttery and rich. The lemon curd is bright and tangy, balanced by the sweet cream. It’s perfect. It’s sunshine on a cloudy day.
I pull out my phone. I stare at the text thread for a second, then type two words.
Thank you.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Anytime. See you tomorrow.
I smile, a real, genuine smile that reaches my eyes. I pack up the rest of the tarts, grab my coat, and lock up the shop.
The night feels different now. Lighter.
I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow.