The Builder’s Son #2
But weeks passed. Then months. And his heart shifted.
The ache didn’t fade—it deepened. Softened. Sweetened. She became more than someone to crave; she became someone he needed. Not for pleasure, but for peace.
Her laugh. Her deep sweetness. The way she devoured rare beef and wanted to kiss him after. The way she spoke to Dolly like the slovenly beast was her housemaid. These weren’t quirks to be tolerated—they were threads woven through his days, things he began to look for, to miss when she wasn’t near.
He loved her.
Not just with fire, but with stillness.
It startled him one morning, the thought coming in quiet and clear, I could marry her.
He hadn’t been thinking about marriage. Not seriously. But the idea arrived unannounced and unshakable, like a song he didn’t remember learning. He tried to ignore it. Tried to laugh it off. But the thought stayed.
He was in trouble. Deep, delicious, irreversible trouble.
And for the first time in his life, he rejoiced.
Helen gazed into his eyes. “Tell me what happened, darling. They’re still being impossible?”
He leaned back with a groan. “I gave clear instructions to Martin and Esaw—told them exactly how to frame the front window, right down to spacing and measurements. The glass I ordered is cut to fit. They had two full days. This morning, I come by and the whole layout’s off.”
Helen stroked his hair gently, taking in his struggles in that silent, patient way she does
“I pointed it out, asked them to fix it,” he went on, his voice tight.
“Instead of doing the work, Martin says I should’ve told them the glass was pre-ordered.
Esaw says my design’s non-standard—how were they supposed to know the size?
I reminded them—again—that I’d given exact specs.
They didn’t care. And then during lunch I hear them mouthing off to the others, blaming me for the mistake. ”
Helen sat straighter. “Seriously?”
“Oh, it gets better.” His laugh was dry. “Rene made some joke about me not being grown enough for my father’s britches. Got the whole crew laughing.”
Helen frowned. “So what did you do?”
“I sent them home. All of them. Told them they’d be docked half a day’s pay and that if they wanted to keep their jobs, they’d show up tomorrow with a better attitude.”
She traced a slow circle along his collarbone. “You were right to do it. They needed to be reminded who’s in charge.”
He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of this responsibility pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to make him crumble like a poorly stacked brick wall.
He stared past her at the skeleton of the house. “What if none of them show up tomorrow? What if this falls apart and I can’t finish?”
“You’ll finish. And if they don’t return... I will help you build it.”
Nic blinked. “You’ll what?”
“I can learn,” she said, her blue eyes serious. “I’ve watched enough. I know how to carry boards. I’m strong enough to hold up a wall frame. And I’m very good with a hammer if you need something smashed.”
He laughed softly, that bleak feeling in his chest loosening at the edges. “God, I love you.”
She kissed him—firmly, tenderly—and in that moment, he could’ve built a hundred houses just for her.
He pressed his forehead to hers. “You really do make the rest of the world fade out when you’re near.”
“Good,” she whispered. “Then you won’t mind if I kidnap you.”
“Oh?”
She grinned wickedly. “My father’s in Nereid. Mother’s busy with embroidery group. So I brought dinner. And a surprise.” She tapped the side of the basket.
“Wait...” He pulled the blanket aside to see a bottle of wine, a familiar quilt, and what looked like pillows. “Are you suggesting—?”
“I was thinking the sacred grove.”
Nic’s breath hitched. “Are you sure you want to freeze again?”
“It’s warmer now,” she said. “And I don’t like your father’s workshop. I’m always worried someone’s going to climb the ladder and catch us.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not to mention the sawdust. I’m still coughing from our last rendezvous.”
She leaned in. “So? Will you come with me, or are you going to sulk here all night?”
He let out a dramatic sigh. “All right, gorgeous. I’m more charming when I’m frostbitten anyway.”
They called it Juno’s grove—tucked deep in the North Town woods, half-swallowed by moss and shadow. Legend said forest nymphs lured mortal men there, only to vanish in laughter while the goddesses bathed just out of reach. Nic never bought into that sort of thing. Until Helen called him there.
On the frosty morning of his eighteenth birthday, Helen had sent him a cryptic note, asking him to meet her that evening. She told him to find the old pergola hidden deep in the woods.
Of course, he had gone, eagerly, breathlessly, imagining what surprise might await.
When he arrived, the pergola shimmered in candlelight, every glass bowl catching flame like starlight in a dream. Blankets and quilts were layered over the platform, and a feast of meats, cheeses, fresh bread, fruit, and wine was spread across a low table.
Helen stood in the golden glow, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a gossamer dress that made her look like a forest spirit summoned from myth.
Nic had never seen anything more beautiful. He had longed to make love to her for months—thought about it constantly, felt it in his bones, in every glance, every brush of her fingers. They had done many things lovers do, but this final step had always remained just out of reach.
And she was offering him everything.
Still, even with desire thrumming in his veins, he felt a tremor of fear. Was he ready? Would he disappoint her? Would this change things between them?
As they lay together beneath the quilts, skin against skin, he whispered, “Are you sure? Once we do this, we’ll be each other’s firsts—forever. We can’t undo it.”
Helen looked up at him, her voice steady, her eyes unwavering. “Yes, Nic. I’m sure.”
When she pulled him down to her, something inside him broke open.
He knew then that he didn’t just love Helen—he was in her, heart and soul.
The night wasn’t just a release of yearning.
It was a promise. Their bodies moved in a rhythm more ancient than time, slow and reverent, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Outside the pergola, frost crept over the forest floor, but inside their world of candlelight and warmth, they were fire and heartbeat, laughter and moans. Every time she whispered his name, he felt like he could split in two from the ache of love.
Long after the candles burned low, they stayed wrapped together beneath the quilts, their fingers entwined, their hearts too full for sleep.
When Nic and Helen arrived at the pergola, the sunset was fully upon the celestial stage.
The forest glowed with shimmering light as though every leaf and twig were gilded in liquid gold.
As Nic spread the blankets over the platform, Helen laid out their supper.
While he washed up at a nearby stream, he took the time to collect stones and tinder to build a small fire.
Unlike last time, he didn’t plan on freezing again!
He thoroughly enjoyed the feast. Every bite tasted richer beneath the twilit canopy of trees.
The cheese from White Wood was soft and earthy, and it melted perfectly against the smoky, thin sausage slices from Black Timber.
The fresh bread was still crusty at the edges, soft within, and they dipped it in golden oil infused with herbs.
The wine—imported from the sister islands of Despina—was dark and velvet-smooth, wrapping around the flavors like a whisper.
Helen fed him slices of pear with her fingers, laughing as juice dripped down his chin.
He caught her wrist and kissed it. They clinked glasses and sipped slowly, lips brushing between toasts.
The forest glowed with the warm hush of evening, and the fire crackled gently, the flame painting her face in flickering gold.
She was a wonder—her cheeks flushed from wine and laughter, her eyes brighter than the stars that had just begun to wink through the canopy overhead.
When she leaned over to kiss him, the taste of grapes and honey lingered on her lips.
He felt her breath catch when his fingers slid up the back of her neck and tangled in her hair.
Helen sighed softly against his mouth. “You always know how to make a simple evening feel like a royal banquet.”
Nic smiled, pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s because I’m having supper with a queen.”
They lingered in that soft stillness, the forest humming around them, owls stirring, leaves rustling gently overhead. She shifted into his lap, and their mouths found each other. Slow. Searching.
She traced the edge of his jaw with her fingers. He kissed her knuckles, her wrist, the delicate curve of her collarbone. She giggled when he brushed his nose against the hollow of her throat, then gasped when his lips closed over it.
The feast forgotten, they explored each other like familiar landscape rediscovered anew.
Helen lay back against the quilts, pulling him with her.
She unfastened the laces of her bodice, and he kissed her slow and deep as she worked at the buttons down his shirt.
He took his time, brushing her skin with the backs of his fingers, watching the shiver ripple across her.
There was no hurry. The night was theirs.
He slid the straps of her dress off her shoulders, revealing the pale silk of her skin beneath. The firelight danced along her curves as he kissed his way down—tasting wine from her lips, cheese from the soft swell of her breast, honeyed butter from the line of her throat.
She responded with her whole body—moaning quietly, her hands grasping at his back, her hips rising to meet him as his hands skimmed along her thighs. He was breathless, burning, undone.