Page 16 of Call It Love (Sterling Mill #5)

Chase

She hadn’t noticed me at first.

Standing in the doorway, I watched as Anna talked on the phone, her expression shifting from amusement to something quieter.

She absently brushed something from her apron, her fingers delicate and gentle, the same fingers that traced lazy patterns against my skin when we were younger.

Back when I thought nothing would cause us to fall apart.

I should have made my presence known. I should have walked away and given her privacy, especially since they were talking about me. About wishing she could change the path.

The truth was, I couldn’t stop looking at her.

Not since the moment she showed up on my doorstep drenched from the rain.

Not when I tried to let her go again to stay at a hotel, only to want to beg her to stay.

And especially not when I found a reason—an excuse —to keep her close.

Not since I realized that no matter how much time had passed or what had transpired, Anna still got to me.

Like no one else ever had. And deep down, I knew no one else ever would .

She laughed at whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying, and at that moment, she looked like she belonged here.

Then, she turned her head, and our eyes met. Her smile faltered, and her breath hitched slightly, but enough that I noticed.

She didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

She murmured something into the phone, then lowered it.

“Hi,” she breathed.

I heard the hesitation. Felt her uncertainty. Reveled in her awareness.

But then her eyes flickered downward and landed on the basket I held. The shift in her expression was subtle, but I caught it—the way her mouth tightened, and her posture grew more rigid. She knew exactly what was in the basket. And she wasn’t happy.

Jealousy maybe?

The thought sent a sliver of satisfaction through me.

I drew a slow breath. “Hey.”

She tipped her head toward the basket. “What’s that?” Her voice was too carefully neutral.

I smirked. “It’s the pie you put on my kitchen table today.”

“Why did you bring it here? It was obviously a gift for you.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “I figured the guys might enjoy it more. Besides, I’ve had better.” I gave her a wink. “I think Bodie’s onto something. Peach is better.”

Her mouth opened like she wanted to say something, but she closed it again. “It looked like a gift,” she finally said.

“It is. But not in the way you’re thinking. ”

She drew herself upright. “I’m not thinking anything.”

I took a couple of steps further into the room and put the pie on the table. “Yeah, you were. Are you jealous?”

Her eyes widened. “Wh…what? No! Of course not.”

“You don’t need to be, in case you’re wondering.”

“I’m not,” she snapped.

Oh, she definitely was. I might have laughed, but I didn’t want to tease her anymore. I couldn’t take the look of pain in her eyes. “The pie is from Wanda Claypool. Old Doc Claypool’s wife. She fell and broke her leg last week. I sent her some flowers as a get-well gift.”

Her features relaxed. “Oh.”

Just one syllable, but it said plenty. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. I kept my eyes pinned to hers, taking in every detail, from the way her breath caught to the flush that spread up her throat to her cheeks.

Did she feel it too? I could see her breath hitch as a flush crept up her neck.

It would only take a few steps forward to reach her. To see if she’d let me close the distance. If I reached for her, would she pull away?

One step. Then two.

Her eyes never left mine.

Then—

“Hey, Bodie said it would be all right if I…”

Jordan’s voice shattered the fragile moment, like a hammer to glass.

Anna startled, blinking as if waking up from a trance. I clenched my jaw, frustrated with Jordan’s timing, but not with him. Maybe it was for the best, anyway.

“Um, sorry. Should I come back?” His voice wavered with uncertainty .

To her credit, Anna recovered swiftly. “It’s okay, honey. You’re not interrupting. What did Bodie say?”

Jordan shifted his weight, still standing in the doorway. “Just that I could grab something to eat before I worked with him today. But I can go and?—”

“No, don’t go.” Anna nodded toward the fridge. “Help yourself.”

I was glad Bodie also recognized that Jordan looked like he needed to eat more than work. I dragged a hand over my face and stepped away, forcing a welcoming smile at the teenager.

Jordan nodded, but didn’t move right away. His fingers twitched at his sides. I knew he was still trying to find his place here. My gut told me he needed stability as much as he needed food. What the hell was going on with the family he lived with?

Anna must have noticed as well because she grabbed a plate and opened the fridge.

“There’s some leftover pot roast in here.

Do you like carrots? Potatoes?” She started pulling out container after container before rummaging through a cabinet.

“Do you like honey? You can put it on some biscuits. Or I can make you a sandwich if you’d like. ”

Jordan watched her with wide eyes. I smothered a smile. I didn’t think Jordan knew what to do with all the attention.

She finally stopped long enough to move to where Jordan was still standing.

“Help yourself to anything you want. And,” she leaned a little closer and dropped her voice to a false whisper, “if you have any favorites, let me know and I’ll add them to the menu.

But don’t tell anyone, because they’ll all be in here putting in requests, and I don’t trust someone not to say liver.

And that’s one thing I won’t make.” She winked .

Jordan peered at her, then cast a sideways glance at me as if he was seeking approval. His shoulders relaxed a little, and for the first time since he’d been working here, I saw a genuine smile. “Thanks,” he whispered, then added cautiously. “Do you know how to make sloppy joes or lasagna?”

Her eyes lit up like she’d won the lottery. Jordan had never asked for anything before. “The best there is,” she answered. “Consider it done.”

His face flushed with pleasure, he busied himself with loading up a plate. While Anna helped him work the microwave, I studied the two of them.

Mason may have done everything he could to silence Anna. But he hadn’t been able to change her. She was so effortlessly warm and caring. Jordan unknowingly brought that out in her while she made him feel cared for.

And while I didn’t want to take anything away from Jordan, that used to be me.

Watching Anna be herself again messed with my head more than I cared to admit. It reminded me of everything we could have had. And just how badly I still wanted it to be again.

I needed space. Not from her, but from myself and the noise in my head.

The sun would sink behind the mountains soon, but I jumped in my truck anyway, knowing I had enough time before it was completely dark.

The unmarked back roads beneath my tires were so familiar I could have driven them blindfolded.

As I crested a hill, I slowed, taking a moment to appreciate the stretch of land before me.

Below, Silver Creek Farm was spread out in organized patches of land.

Greenhouses glinted in the fading sun, and red barns stood sturdy along the horizon.

To the east, fields of ornamental shrubs and perennials stretched wide, big blue and white blooms of hydrangeas next to viburnum bushes and clusters of rhododendrons and hostas.

To the west, rows of Japanese maples and crepe myrtles alongside dogwoods and redbuds—staples in Tennessee landscaping—waited to be shipped to nurseries across the state.

Beyond them, the taller silhouettes of river birch, tulip poplars, and magnolias added to the landscape.

Young Aspen and Willow trees danced in the evening breeze.

Quiet pride settled in my chest. For over two hundred years, generation after generation of Allens poured sweat, tears, and likely some blood into this land, each striving to do their part to leave it better than it was.

What began as a homestead to feed a family had grown, little by little, into a commercial farm that provided in new ways.

And nestled in the middle stood the farmhouse—the heart of the farm. And further down the drive, a warm light glowed from a window of the cabin where Anna was settling for the evening.

I told myself I wasn’t looking for signs of her, but I knew that was a lie.

She’d only been here for a short time, but I was more aware of her than I should be.

I’d catch myself wondering what she was doing when she was in the cabin—if she still liked to get lost in a book while curled under a blanket with a cup of tea.

Or if she had picked up a quiet new hobby to fill her evening hours. Did she still hum while she cleaned?

Did she ever wonder about me? Still feel the same pull I did earlier today ?

And fuck me, but that was the last thing I should be thinking about. It was too soon for that. She was still healing from the trauma Mason had put her through. We hadn’t even faced what happened between us all those years ago.

But I found myself caring less and less about the past and more about what was right in front of me. About how natural it felt to have her back here again. How the farm felt more vibrant with her touches. How I felt a little less alone.

Blowing out a long breath, I kept driving, still needing the space to think. To breathe. I followed the road a little farther before turning down an unmarked gravel road. In a few feet, I was flanked by rows of fir trees, mostly Frasers, but also some balsams tucked in.

I passed the first several dozen rows marked with blue ribbons, this year’s crop that would be cut in the fall. But when I reached a clearing with far fewer trees, I pulled off and killed the engine. For several minutes, I just sat there, watching the fading light close around the evergreens.

This part of the farm was different from the rest. Unlike the lower fields that had stood for generations, the Christmas tree lot was newer.

It had been my uncle’s project, started by him shortly before my sisters and I moved to Sterling Mill, and it had been my first experience of working alongside him.

A smile tugged at my lips as I recalled the day Uncle James had brought me up here to get out of the house where I’d been moping around.

I’d been around twelve, and I’d been feeling down with the departure of my dad for another long trip as he geared up for another race.

He knew I was always the most excited of anyone in the family to come up here and pick out our family Christmas tree that would take up a full corner in my grandparents’ living room.

Cam always complained it was too cold. Bristol was happier in Grandpa’s garage than outside.

But me? I loved feeling the soft needles run through my fingers and the scent of the fresh pine, especially after we cut it down.

That day, Uncle James determined I was old enough to do more than pick out a tree.

It was time to learn the story of the tree, he’d said.

To help grow them. He promised that someday we’d come back and cut one down that I’d helped plant.

He walked me to the simple building where he kept tray after tray of tiny seeds inside a cone of soil and explained it would take nearly five years before they were tall enough—about one foot—to plant in the ground where they’d continue to grow for up to another five or more years, depending on how big he decided to let it grow.

I wasn’t old enough to handle the auger that drilled holes in the ground, but I was old enough to place the five-year-old seedlings in the holes and cover them up.

I didn’t care about getting dirt under my nails like Cam did.

I loved pressing the soil around each stem.

That day, I fell in love with the idea of planting something that would take root and grow into something that would give someone else pleasure.

After that, I was like an obnoxious puppy, always following Uncle James around the farm to learn everything I could.

And patient as ever, he taught me everything he knew.

Nearly ten years later, I drove up here on a bitter December day and cut down one of those trees I’d planted alongside him. I’d just never imagined it would be without him.

Silver Creek Farm was now mine. Uncle James had willed the entire operation to me, trusting me to carry on the legacy he inherited—and the one he believed I could carry on.

But I was doing it on my own. Not with Anna like I’d once imagined.

Not with kids running through the fields, learning to appreciate the land the way I did.

Anna had broken up with me just before I left for college, saying she didn’t want to hold me back.

I was angry and didn’t fight back. By the time I came home for winter break ready to convince her she was wrong, she was gone, married to Mason.

One by one, all the people I had ever counted on had left. My mom ran out on us when we were kids. Anna. My grandparents and uncle. My dad.

The farm became the only constant, the one thing I had left.

And the older I got, the more I wondered if I was just tending to someone else’s legacy without ever creating one of my own.

But with Anna back, hope had crept in.

Maybe—just maybe—I had a chance to build something with her after all.

And that possibility scared the hell out of me.

Because this time, if I lost her again, I wasn’t sure I’d know how to start over.