4. Lance
Lance
There are flowers in my coffee mug.
Small white ones with yellow centers. Cora tells me what they are over breakfast.
I forget the name before she finishes saying it.
She is wearing a blue dress covered in tiny pink roses, and that takes every useful thought out of my head.
Tessa took her shopping yesterday. Cora came back with two dresses, a pair of shoes, and enough toiletries to take over my bathroom counter.
The place has looked different ever since.
So has she.
The blue fabric draws in at her waist before falling over the full curves of her hips. It should be illegal to wear something that soft before I have finished my coffee.
She catches me staring.
Her fingers move to the skirt, smoothing fabric that does not need smoothing.
I hate whoever taught her to question what I see when I look at her.
“I need to check in at the station,” I say. “Then we’ll pick up ribbon and vases.”
“I can walk to the greenhouse.”
“No.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“The doctor said rest.”
“The doctor said activity as tolerated.”
“I do not tolerate you walking across town in July heat with smoke still in your lungs.”
She studies me over the rim of her glass.
“That almost sounded sweet.”
“Eat your toast.”
Her mouth curves.
“I’ll be back soon,” I add.
Her smile follows me all the way to the truck.
That is becoming a problem.
I like leaving her in my house too much.
Like knowing she will be here when I return even more.
At the firehouse, Jordan is washing the engine. His grin starts before I reach the bay.
“Say it,” I tell him.
“Was going to ask how Cora is.”
“She’s healing.”
“And living with you.”
“Temporary.”
The word tastes wrong.
Jordan hears it too.
“Sure.”
“Wash the damn engine.”
“I am washing it.”
He turns the hose toward the front tire, still grinning.
Zain stands inside the open bay with coffee black enough to strip paint. He takes one look at me and nods toward his office.
I follow.
He shuts the door behind us.
“How is she?”
“Good.”
“How are you?”
“Good.”
He leans against the edge of his desk. “Strong conversation.”
“What do you want, Chief?”
“Cora depends on you for a place to sleep. You’re twelve years older, twice her size, and she nearly died two nights ago.”
My spine stiffens.
“I would never hurt her.”
“I know.”
The simple answer cuts through the anger before it can take hold.
Zain lifts his coffee.
“Make sure she knows she has choices. Protection turns into control fast when fear is making the decisions.”
I look at the scar disappearing beneath his collar.
He knows more about bringing a woman home after a fire than most men. Knows what it is to watch someone fragile walk into his ordered life and make staying detached impossible.
“She has choices.”
“Good.” He drinks his coffee. “Then tell her what yours are.”
My jaw tightens. “Meaning?”
“You crossed half the bay before dispatch finished reading her address. Stop acting confused.”
“I knew she was trapped.”
“So did everyone else.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Zain can hold a silence until another man confesses just to make it end.
I am not giving him the satisfaction.
He sets his mug on the desk.
“You’ve wanted her for two years.”
“Anything else, Chief?”
“Plenty.”
I open the door.
His voice follows me into the hall.
“Do not make her guess, Renner.”
I leave before he gets more helpful.
Cora is waiting on my porch when I pull into the drive.
The morning sun catches in her honey-blonde curls. Her blue dress moves around her legs in the breeze, and the green ribbon holding my spare key circles her wrist.
She looks soft and bright against the dark wood of my house.
Like she belongs there.
The thought settles somewhere deep and refuses to move.
I do not want this to end.
The flowers in my sink. Her voice filling rooms that have been silent for years.
I want all of it.
“Ready?” she asks.
I have been ready for her for two years. I spent most of that time trying to bury it.
“Let’s go.”
The greenhouse outside town is hot and damp. Sunlight turns the glass roof white above us, and rows of summer flowers spill across wooden tables.
Cora changes the moment we step inside.
She lights up.
She talks to the owner about stem strength, vase life, and color balance. Her hands move as she explains the arrangements she wants for Founder’s Day. She touches petals gently, checking each bloom before she adds it to the order.
I carry buckets and watch her become completely herself.
No hesitation.
No apology.
She knows what she is doing, and everyone around her knows it too.
At the register, the owner smiles at us.
“Founder’s Day flowers are donated. Ribbon and supplies come to one hundred forty-three dollars.”
Cora reaches for her purse.
I hand over my card.
“Lance.”
“You can pay me from Saturday’s sales.”
“I can pay now.”
“With what?”
Her cheeks flush.
Wrong move.
The question came out harder than I meant it to.
I lower my voice.
“Let me help.”
“You already saved my life and gave me your bed.”
“Neither came with a bill.”
The greenhouse owner becomes deeply interested in the receipt printer.
Cora looks at my card, then at me.
“First sales on Saturday.”
“Deal.”
“You two are sweet,” the owner says.
Cora turns pink.
I take the receipt.
“Yeah.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
I pick up the supplies and carry them outside before I say something I cannot take back.
By evening, my kitchen has disappeared beneath even more flowers.
The room was already halfway to becoming Grandma’s Garden. Now ribbon covers the table, buckets line the cabinets, and stems fill every clear surface.
Cora hums while she works.
I make sandwiches because my eggs have lost their privileges.
She reaches for a vase on the highest shelf.
Her face tightens.
One hand presses to her bruised hip.
I am beside her before the vase moves.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Cora.”
“Lance.”
She reaches again.
I put my hands around her waist and lift her onto the counter.
Her breath catches.
So does mine.
My palms stay against her.
Soft curves fill my hands. The skirt of her dress slides above her knees, baring pale thighs.
Every useful thought burns out of my head.
“I could have sat down by myself,” she whispers.
“Took too long.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
I feel the pull of it everywhere.
I step back before I do something selfish.
Her bandaged hand catches mine.
“Wait.”
I stop.
Her fingers trace one of the pale scars on my forearm.
My skin goes numb beneath her touch.
“What happened?”
I could lie.
She deserves better from me.
“My father.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“Cigarettes,” I say. “After my mother died, he drank. Some nights, he wanted someone else to hurt.”
Her face folds with pain that belongs to me.
I regret telling her for half a second.
Then her thumb circles the edge of the scar.
There is no disgust in her expression.
No pity.
Only care.
“How old were you?”
“Nine when the fire happened. The burns started the next year.”
Her touch moves to another mark.
“Is that why you became a firefighter?”
“Couldn’t save her.”
The words scrape on the way out.
“You were a child.”
“I heard her calling.” My jaw locks. “I wasn’t strong enough to reach her.”
Cora slides from the counter.
Then her arms wrap around me.
I freeze.
No one touches the worst parts of me and stays.
Her cheek presses over my heart.
I close my arms around her.
She fits against me too well.
Like my body has been waiting for hers and is pissed it took this long.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
I press my face into her hair.
“Long time ago.”
“It still matters.”
The truth nearly puts me on my knees.
She leans back enough to look at me.
“Was that why you stopped believing people stay?”
“My mother did not choose to leave.”
“Someone else did.”
Whispering Pines is small. Everyone knows I was left at the altar. Most of them had already taken their seats when it happened.
“My high school sweetheart,” I say. “We were together eleven years. She left the morning of the wedding with my best man.”
Cora’s eyes widen.
“Eleven years?”
“Yeah.”
“She is an idiot.”
The words come out fierce enough to surprise me.
“You didn’t know her.”
“I know enough.”
My own words from the hospital.
Cora gives me a faint smile.
Then it fades.
“My ex stayed,” she says. “At least until he found someone he liked better.”
I wait.
“I worked all through high school. Cleaning pools, houses, whatever I could find. He always needed gas money or food or something for his truck.”
Her gaze fixes on the front of my shirt instead of my face.
“Then I found him with another girl. He told everyone he only dated me because I paid for things. Said he needed someone prettier for his future.”
Rage moves through me.
Clean.
Violent.
“Name.”
Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“Need to know who I am avoiding hitting.”
A laugh escapes her despite the hurt in her face.
“He left town.”
“Smart.”
Her fingers move to the waist of her dress, tugging at the fabric.
“He said things about my body. People laughed. I decided men were easier to avoid.”
I catch her hand before she can pull the dress away from herself.
“Look at me.”
She does.
“There is nothing about your body a man should laugh at.”
Color moves across her cheeks.
I step closer.
“Your hair drives me out of my mind. Your eyes make me forget what I was saying. Every dress you own fits curves I have spent two years trying not to touch.”
Her lips part.
“Two years?”
Too late to take it back.
“Since the first time I walked into your shop.”
“Why did you stay away?”
“Distance felt safer.”
“Does it still?”
“No.”
Nothing about her feels safe.
I have never wanted anything enough to lose control of it.
Until now.
I cup her face.
“Tell me to stop before this goes too far.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
I kiss her.
Her mouth is soft and sweet.
She makes a quiet sound and grips my shirt.
The control I have held for two years slips.
I angle her head and take the kiss deeper.
She opens for me.
Heat hits hard and fast.
My hands move to her waist, then lower until my palms span her hips. Cora presses closer, her breasts soft against my chest.
I back her against the counter.
Flowers tremble in their vases.
Her fingers slide into my hair.
I kiss her jaw, her throat, the soft place beneath her ear.
“Lance.”
My name in her voice nearly breaks me.
I force myself to stop.
Her breathing comes fast.
Mine is no better.
“Your lungs.”
“They are working.”
“Your hip.”
“Barely hurts.”
“You almost died two nights ago.”
Her hands tighten in my shirt.
“That is why I’m done waiting to want things.”
I look at her.
“I want this,” she says. “I want you.”
Every rule I built turns to ash.
“Cora.”
“Don’t stop.”