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Chapter fourteen
Bryan
The morning air is crisp, the scent of salt lingering as waves crash against the cliffs beyond the backyard. The garden is finally starting to take shape, roses standing tall, weeds no longer strangling the beds. It’s been slow work, but I don’t mind.
Not today. Because all I can think about is her. Emma.
The way she lit up at the fundraiser was amazing. When she stood in front of the entire town and spoke about her dream, her passion spilled into the crowd. The way she caught my eye from across the room and held it took my breath away.
She should be proud of herself. For that matter, I’m proud of her.
I shake my head, smirking to myself as I kneel, pruning the lower bushes near the fence. Never thought I’d be the kind of guy who spent his morning tending roses, but here I am.
My sleeves are pushed up, dirt smudging my forearm, but it doesn’t bother me. Not when I hear her voice behind me.
“Still at it?”
I glance up. Emma stands at the porch steps, cradling a steaming mug in both hands, her sweater slightly oversized, jeans hugging her legs, hair catching the sunlight.
Beautiful.
I force my gaze back to the bush I’m trimming, keeping my voice casual. “The roses need more attention.”
She hums, stepping down into the yard. I hear the scrape of her boots against the stone pathway before she kneels beside me, tugging on gloves.
“I’ll help,” she says simply, grabbing a trowel and digging into the soil like it’s second nature.
She’s here. With me. And it’s easy. No tension, no walls. Just the two of us, working side by side, the way it used to be.
We fall into rhythm, she loosens the dirt, I plant the bulbs, the occasional thud of the shovel and rustle of leaves filling the silence. Every so often, I sneak a glance at her. She’s lost in the work, a small smile playing at her lips as she carefully pats soil over a fresh hole.
Man, I’ve missed that smile. She lifts a hand to brush a stray hair from her face, smudging dirt across her cheek in the process.
I chuckle. “You’ve got…” I motion to my own cheek.
She frowns, swiping at the wrong spot. “Here?”
“Other side.”
She tries again, still missing. I shake my head, reaching forward before I think better of it. My fingers graze her cheek, wiping the dirt away in a slow, deliberate motion.
The moment stretches. Her breath catches, her eyes locking onto mine bright, stunning and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
She’s so close. The scent of lavender lingers between us, mingling with the damp earth, and I swear the sun shines a little warmer.
She swallows, her voice soft. “Like old times.”
I clear my throat, pulling back. “Yeah,” I murmur, throwing myself back into digging before I do something reckless.
She doesn’t move away, though. Doesn’t run. This is dangerous.
A sudden scraping noise pulls our attention. Buddy trots over, paws kicking up dirt, something gripped between his teeth. He drops it beside Emma’s knee with a clink, a chipped clay pot, faded daisies painted along its sides. I stiffen.
Emma’s fingers brush over the surface, her expression shifting into something unreadable.
“This is… our pot.” Her astonishment is palpable. It’s not a question. My chest tightens as the memory hits.
Fourteen years ago, two reckless kids painted the thing on Grandma’s porch, laughing as we smeared colors on each other instead of the clay. We had planted daisies in it, saying they’d be our thing.