Chapter 11 #2
Because Cal was still smiling. That rare smile that rearranged his whole face into something dangerous. And my stomach was doing things stomachs had absolutely no business doing when you were just friends with someone.
I pressed my fingertips lightly against Pudding's back, grounding myself.
You came here to start over. This is not part of the plan.
I was still patching the holes Aaron had left. Still relearning which opinions were mine and which ones I'd borrowed from someone who thought my taste was embarrassing. I had a farm to save and soap to make and—
“Should we tackle the soap?” The words came out too bright, too forced. “It's getting late.”
Cal studied me for a beat too long, like he could see straight through the deflection.
“If you want to.”
“I do.” I carefully extracted myself from under Pudding, who huffed in protest but didn't wake.
Cal gathered the sleepy puppy against his chest, and I busied myself shaking out the blanket. Anything to avoid looking at him. At that face. At the way his hands cradled Pudding like he was something precious.
“We can put him in the living room.” I folded the blanket with more precision than it required. “He'll be far enough from the soap making to be safe. The couch is pretty comfortable—well, comfortable for a couch that is over two decades old. Walt always said—”
Stop rambling.
“—that furniture with good bones is worth keeping. So. Yeah. Pudding can sleep there.”
Cal followed me inside, his footsteps quiet behind me. Too quiet. Like he was trying not to spook me.
Which was ridiculous. I wasn't some skittish rescue puppy who needed careful handling.
Except maybe I was, and he knew it, and that made everything worse.
I grabbed a throw blanket from the basket beside the couch, spreading it across the cushions. Cal set Pudding down gently. The puppy circled twice before curling into a tight ball, already drifting back to sleep.
“There.” I straightened, brushing my hands against my overalls. “All set. Perfect. Great.”
Three synonyms for the same thing. Real smooth, Rosie.
Cal stood too close in the small living room. Not actually close—there was plenty of space between us. But it felt close. Like the room had shrunk around us.
“So.” I backed toward the kitchen doorway. “Soap. Let's try to rescue some soap. That's why you're here. For soap making. Not the— Just the soap.”
His mouth quirked, almost imperceptibly. “Just the soap.”
“Exactly.” I spun toward the kitchen, nearly tripping over my own feet.
The kitchen looked worse than I remembered. Sticky residue coated the counter, my abandoned measuring cups scattered across the surface like evidence of a crime scene.
I grabbed a spatula and started scraping hardened soap residue into the trash, working faster than necessary.
“Rosie.”
“Hmm?” I didn't look up.
The silence stretched. I could feel him watching me, but I kept scraping, the spatula making harsh sounds against the counter.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. Just trying to salvage this mess.” I scraped harder at a stubborn spot. “Did you know lye can stain wood? Walt probably knew that. He knew everything about this farm and I know nothing—”
“Stop.”
I froze mid-scrape.
Cal moved into my line of vision. “Something happened. Out there, on the blanket. What is it?”
“Nothing happened.” The lie felt clumsy on my tongue. “Pudding fell asleep on me. That's it.”
“And then you ran inside like the house was on fire.”
“I didn't run. I suggested we work on the soap. Which is what you came here for.” I gestured at the disaster zone with my spatula. “This.”
His jaw tightened. “Is this about what I said? About you making things easier?”
“No.” Yes. Maybe. “Can we just focus on the soap?”
“Rosie.”
The way he said my name made my chest squeeze.
I turned back to the counter, gripping the spatula until my knuckles went white. “There's nothing to talk about. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Let's just figure out if this batch is salvageable or if I need to start over.”
The silence behind me felt heavy.
Finally, he moved. Pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “Let me look up how to fix this.”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you.”
We worked in careful silence. Cal scrolled through articles while I cleaned the worst of the mess. Every accidental brush of shoulders or hands felt like a live wire.
He was being helpful. Kind. Exactly what I needed.
And all I could think about was how his smile had transformed his entire face when Pudding chose me. How his voice had gone rough when he said I made things easier. How he'd dropped everything to drive out here because I'd mentioned lye in a phone call.
Aaron had never done that. Had never rushed to help when I needed him. Had certainly never looked at me the way Cal had on that blanket.
Don't compare them.
But I couldn't help it. Because standing in this kitchen with Cal, watching him work carefully, I realized something that made my chest ache.
This was what it felt like to be seen.
Not the version of me someone wanted me to be. Just... me. Messy and overwhelmed and trying so hard it hurt.
And I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.