Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Callum
The soap had taken three hours to salvage.
Three hours of melting, stirring, and starting over when the temperature got too high. Rosie had relaxed somewhere around hour two, when she'd stopped jumping every time I handed her something.
Now we stood at the kitchen island, carefully ladling the pale, creamy mixture into rectangular molds. The soap smelled like honey and lavender, sweet and clean.
“There.” Rosie smoothed the top of the last mold with a spatula. “That's all of it.”
I wiped my hands on the dish towel, studying our work. Six neat rows of soap cooling on the counter. But something felt... off.
“They look good,” I said.
“They do.” She stepped back, surveying the molds with satisfaction. “Much better than my first attempt.”
I nodded, but kept staring at the plain rectangles.
“What?” She'd caught me frowning.
“They look maybe a bit...” I searched for the right words. “Plain?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Plain?”
Great. Now you sound like a complete ass.
“Not that there's anything wrong with plain,” I said quickly. “They're well-made. Professional. But they don't look like... you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
I gestured vaguely at the neat rectangles. “You're not plain, Rosie. You're—” I stopped, heat creeping up my neck. “You could add something. On top. Make them more interesting.”
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe confusion. She stared down at the soap, then back at me.
“Interesting like me?”
“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Like... dried lavender or something. Herbs from your garden. Make them yours.”
She was quiet for a long moment, studying the molds. When she looked up, her expression had shifted into something I couldn't quite read.
“You think I should make them more... colorful? Messy?”
“Not messy. Just—” I ran a hand through my hair. “Just like you.”
A slow smile spread across her face, and she moved to the windowsill where she'd left sprigs of lavender to dry. She picked up several stems, then turned back to me with that mischievous look I was starting to recognize.
“Here.” She handed me half the sprigs. “You helped make them, so you should decorate one. Make it look like you.”
I stared at the purple flowers in my palm. “And what’s that supposed to look like?”
“Oh, you know.” Her eyes sparkled with barely contained laughter. “Perfectly straight lines. Every petal in its proper place. Very serious and organized.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I'm not that uptight.”
“Of course not.” She was already moving to the first mold, crumbling lavender between her fingers.
I looked down at the soap, then at the delicate flowers in my hand. This was ridiculous. But Rosie was watching me with that expectant smile, and I found myself carefully plucking individual buds from the stems.
I placed them one by one across the surface of the soap in neat, evenly spaced rows. The purple stood out against the pale cream, orderly and precise.
“There.”
Rosie leaned over to examine my work. “It's perfect. Very... you.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest at the approval in her voice.
I watched as she moved to the next mold, scattering petals with wild abandon, letting them fall where they wanted.
Some landed in clusters, others drifted to the edges.
It looked like controlled chaos—beautiful and completely unpredictable.
Just like her.
I turned away before she could catch me staring and pulled the mixing bowls toward the sink. Safer to focus on cleanup than watch the way she moved between the molds, humming under her breath.
The dishes clinked as I stacked them, reaching for the faucet when I noticed a notebook perched dangerously close to the edge of the counter. I moved it out of splash range, but a loose page fluttered to the floor.
I bent to pick it up and froze.
It was a logo. Hand-drawn, a simple barn silhouette with mountains behind it, the words “Sullivan Farm” curved along the bottom in elegant script. But it wasn't just one version. The margins were filled with variations, different fonts, slight adjustments to the mountain peaks.
I picked up the notebook, flipping it open before I could stop myself.
Page after page of designs. Labels for jam jars. Tags for herb bundles. A whole brand identity sketched out in pencil and pen, notes scribbled in the margins about color palettes and printing costs.
“Oh.” Rosie's voice came from behind me, soft with something like embarrassment. “You found my midnight doodling.”
“This isn't doodling.” I looked up at her. “This is professional.”
She moved closer, taking the notebook from my hands. Her fingers brushed mine, and I forced myself to focus on the designs instead of that brief contact.
“I used to do this for a living.” She flipped through the pages, not quite meeting my eyes. “Before the farm.”
I stared at her. “You quit this to run a farm?”
“When you say it like that—” She laughed, but it sounded hollow. “I was doing corporate graphic design. Pitch decks for executives. Internal documents nobody read. Brand guidelines for companies that made, like, moisture barrier membranes.”
“Lucrative, I assume.”
“Soul-crushing, mostly.” She set the notebook down, running her hand over one of the logo sketches.
“This doesn't look soul-crushing.” I gestured at the designs spread across the counter.
“It's not.” She traced one of the mountain peaks with her fingertip. “Actually, this has been the most fun I've had designing in... years, maybe.”
She flipped to another page—sketches of packaging for the soap, complete with little ribbon ties and handwritten care instructions.
“I've been thinking about the whole process,” she continued, her voice picking up speed. “Like, the soap needs to cure for at least four weeks before it's ready, right? So, I could do a preorder system. Take orders at the market, maybe even online, and deliver them when they're ready.”
She was gesturing now, her hands moving as she talked, and I found myself leaning closer to catch every word.
“And I could do seasonal variations—lavender in spring, maybe rosemary and mint in summer. Create this whole subscription thing where people know what to expect but it's still special.” She paused, looking up at me. “Does that sound completely insane?”
“No.” The conviction in my voice surprised me. “It sounds smart.”
Her smile widened. “Really?”
I nodded toward the notebook. “You've thought of everything. The branding, the logistics, the seasonal rotation. It's... impressive.”
“I just—” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I forgot how good it feels to create something from nothing. To solve real problems that matter.”
“Moisture barrier membranes don't matter?”
She laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “Not to me, they didn't. But this?” She gestured at the cooling soap molds. “People will use this. Touch it, smell it. It'll make their day a little nicer.”
I watched her face as she spoke, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about her work. There was something magnetic about her passion, the way she threw herself completely into whatever she was doing.
“You've got some—” I started then stopped.
“What?”
A small smudge of soap batter clung to her left cheekbone, pale against her skin. She must have gotten it while stirring earlier.
“Soap,” I said, my voice coming out rough. “On your cheek.”
She lifted her hand to wipe it away, missing by several inches. “Did I get it?”
“No, it's—” I hesitated, then stepped closer. “Here.”
I reached up, intending to brush it away quickly. But the moment my thumb touched her skin, everything slowed down. The soap came away easily, but I didn't move my hand.
Her skin was warm, softer than I'd expected. She'd gone completely still, her eyes wide as she looked up at me.
“There,” I whispered, but I didn't step back.
Neither did she.
I should have pulled my hand away. Should have put distance between us. Instead I found myself tracing the line of her cheek with my thumb, watching the way her lips parted slightly.
“Cal,” she whispered, and the sound of my name in her voice did something dangerous to my chest.
She was leaning into my hand—or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe the way she was looking at me, like she was waiting for something, was all in my head. But she felt so real, so warm, and she smelled like honey and lavender and something uniquely her.
I was close enough to count her freckles. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Close enough to—
A sharp bark split the air.
We jumped apart like we'd been electrocuted. Rosie's hand flew to her cheek where mine had been, her face flushed pink.
Another bark, high and frantic, came from the other room.
“Pudding,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “I'll— I'll check on him.”
I turned and walked quickly toward the living room, my heart still hammering from whatever had just happened in that kitchen. The feel of Rosie's skin lingered on my thumb, and I flexed my hand, trying to shake off the memory.
Pudding stood on his hind legs against the window, front paws pressed to the glass, barking at something outside. His little body vibrated with each sharp yip.
“Hey, easy.” I crouched beside him, running my hand along his back. “What's got you worked up?”
Through the window, a white blur moved across the yard in the moonlight. One of the chickens, pecking at something near the porch steps.
“It's just a chicken,” I murmured, scooping Pudding up. He settled against my chest but kept his eyes fixed on the window, a low whine rumbling in his throat.
I carried him back to the kitchen, where Rosie was aggressively wiping down the already clean counter, her movements sharp and jerky.
“Everything okay?” she asked without looking up.
“He was barking at a chicken outside your window.” I set Pudding down, watching as he immediately trotted back toward the living room. “Is that... normal? For them to be wandering around this late?”
Rosie's hand stilled on the counter. “What? No, they should all be in the coop.” She dropped the rag, concern creasing her forehead. “They go in at dusk. Always.”
She was already moving toward the door, grabbing a flashlight from a drawer. I followed her outside, Pudding trailing behind us with cautious curiosity.
The beam of her flashlight swept across the yard, illuminating scattered white shapes. Not just one chicken—at least six of them, pecking and wandering freely across the grass.
“This isn't right.” Rosie's voice was tight. “Something must have—”
A familiar bleat echoed from the direction of the chicken coop.
“Snickers,” she groaned.
We hurried toward the coop, and sure enough, the flashlight revealed the cream-and-brown goat standing inside the wooden structure, happily munching on scattered feed. The door hung open, latch dangling uselessly.
“Snickers, you little—” Rosie started.
“I've got her.” I stepped into the coop, careful not to spook the goat. “Come on, troublemaker.”
Snickers looked up at me with innocent brown eyes, a piece of straw hanging from her mouth. She didn't resist when I slipped my fingers under her collar, just bleated softly as I led her out of the coop.
“Sorry about your midnight snack,” I murmured, guiding her across the yard toward the goat pen.
The other two goats pressed against the fence, watching our approach with interest. I ushered Snickers through the already opened gate, then grabbed a thick wooden post from beside the shed and wedged it against the latch at an angle.
“There. Let's see you figure that out.”
Behind me, Rosie was making soft clucking sounds, herding the last chicken into the coop and fixing the latch.
“Crisis averted,” she announced, walking back toward me.
“For now.” I nodded toward Snickers, who was already testing the wooden post with her nose. “She's determined, I'll give her that.”
We stood there in comfortable silence, watching the goats settle down for the night. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, casting everything in silver light.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For staying. For helping with the soap, and this, and...” She gestured vaguely. “Everything.”
The words sat in my chest, warm and unfamiliar. I wanted to tell her I'd do it again. That I'd drop everything if she needed me. That somehow, in the span of a few days, she'd become the easiest person in my life to say yes to.
“Anytime,” I said, and meant it more than was probably wise.
She smiled, soft and genuine.
“Actually, give me your phone.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Your phone.” I held out my hand. “So you can call me directly instead of going through the clinic.”
“You mean instead of Sharon deciding whether my call is important enough to bother you with?”
“Something like that.” I huffed a laugh and took her phone, navigating to her contacts. I typed in my personal number, then paused at the name field. Something made me type just “Cal” instead of the formal “Dr. Sterling” or “Callum” that most people used.
I handed it back to her. “There. For emergencies.”
She looked down at the screen, her smile widening. “Emergencies?”
“If something happens—animal trouble, equipment breaks down—” I met her eyes. “I'll do my best to be there.”
“That's a dangerous offer.” Her voice was soft, almost teasing. “I need help pretty much constantly.”
“Good thing I don't sleep much anyway.”
She laughed, the sound warm in the cool night air. “You should, though. Sleep, I mean.”
“I'll work on it.”
We stood there for another moment, neither of us moving. The distance between us felt charged somehow, like the air before a storm.
“I should—” She gestured toward the house. “Let you get home. You've got to be exhausted.”
I was. But standing here with her, watching moonlight catch in her hair, I felt more awake than I had in months.
“Yeah.” I took a step back, then another. “Get some rest, Rosie.”
“You too, Cal.”
I walked to my truck, Pudding trotting beside me. When I opened the door, I glanced back. She was still standing there, phone clutched in her hand, watching me leave.
I lifted my hand in a small wave.
She waved back, that bright smile lighting up her whole face.
I climbed into the truck, my chest feeling strange and tight. As I started the engine, I caught myself grinning like an idiot at the steering wheel.
What are you doing, Sterling?
But I already knew the answer.
I was in trouble.