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.
Emma traces the crack running along its side, her voice quieter now. “I thought it was gone.”
I swallow. “Found it buried behind the shed a few weeks ago.” She glances up, her eyes searching mine. “And you kept it?”
I exhale, gripping the pot and reaching for a small tube of glue in the supply basket. “Yeah, I mean it was worth fixing.” The words aren’t just about the pot.
Emma must have heard the layers beneath them, because something shifts in her gaze. She doesn’t say anything for a long beat. Just watches as I carefully patch the crack, smoothing glue along the break. Then, she smiles. Soft. Real. And not mad.
It shouldn’t feel like a win, but it does. We work in silence after that, finishing the last of the planting. She presses the final bulb into the dirt, patting the soil gently. “Looks good,” she murmurs.
I nod, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “Yeah.”
Neither of us moves. Her hands are still covered in soil, her fingers curled slightly, but she doesn’t pull away from the spot where we kneel, side by side. She looks at me then, really looks, as if debating something.
My pulse kicks up. Something’s shifting between us.
I can feel it in the way her breath hitches, in the way the space between us seems too small, in the way I don’t want this moment to end.
Do I say something? Do I push this, push her the way I’ve been fighting not to?
But before I can decide, she exhales, brushing dirt off her jeans as she stands. “Thanks for this.”
Her voice is light, controlled. Like she’s forcing distance. And maybe she is.
I nod, pushing myself up beside her. “Anytime.”
She lingers for a second longer, then turns toward the house, Buddy trailing behind her. I watch her go; my stomach tight.
And I know now, for sure … this isn’t over.
***
The living room is dimly lit, the lantern on the coffee table casts a warm glow. Outside, the ocean hums softly, waves rolling against the cliffs. The air inside is thick with something I can’t quite name maybe it’s exhaustion from the day’s work in the garden, or maybe it’s Emma.
She’s sitting across from me on the rug, legs folded beneath her, fingers shuffling through a deck of Uno cards like it’s second nature. She looks completely at ease, her hair messy from the wind earlier, cheeks flushed from the warmth of the house. I should look away. I should stop watching her. But I don’t.
Emma glances up, catching me staring, and tilts her head. “What?”
I clear my throat, shifting my weight like it’ll shake off the effect she has on me. “Let’s play.”
Her brows lift, amused. “Uno?”
I nod, reaching for the cards in her hands. My fingers brush hers, and for a second, neither of us move. The small touch sizzles, sending a jolt straight through me, and I see the slight hitch in her breath before she pulls away, straightening her spine.
“I’m warning you now,” she teases, breaking the tension like she doesn’t feel it. “I’m ruthless. Remember?”
I smirk, drawing my first card. “We’ll see about that.”
We fall into an easy rhythm, the game unfolding between playful taunts and accusations of cheating. “You are absolutely stacking the deck,” Emma accuses when I drop another Draw Four on her.
I lean back against the couch, watching her struggle to pick up her extra cards, and shrug. “You’re just mad because I’m winning.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of mischief in them, a spark that makes my stomach tighten. “You’re lucky Buddy’s here, or I’d flip this table.”
Buddy lets out a lazy huff from his spot in the corner, thumping his tail like he agrees with her. I chuckle, but my laughter cuts short when she leans forward to slap down her next card, her hair falling over her shoulder in a cascade of soft waves. The scent of lavender reaches me, light, familiar, intoxicating. I grip my next card a little tighter, forcing myself to focus, but she’s too close.
She glances up through her lashes, grinning as she drops another card. Reverse .
I swallow hard. My brain tells me to look away, but my body? My body leans in, drawn to her warmth, the sound of her laugh, the way her fingers tap against the rug in thought. She doesn’t pull away.
Her gaze lingers on mine, the teasing look slipping into something quieter, deeper. The game is forgotten, cards scattered between us. My pulse is hammering, my breath shallow. I could kiss her right now. I want to kiss her.
I don’t even think. I just tilt forward, slow, testing. She doesn’t move back. Her lips part slightly, her breath mingling with mine, and I swear I can feel the pull of her. It’s magnetic, inevitable.
Just a little closer. Then, I place my lips gently on hers. A moan erupts from her as I savor the moment. I wrap my hand around the back of her neck to pull her closer.
Then, the shrill ring of my phone shatters the moment like a punch to the gut. Emma jerks back, blinking like she’s been snapped from a spell, and my stomach twists at the loss of her warmth.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. Good grief, this phone is going to drive me crazy. Grabbing it off the table, I glance at the screen. Nate. Of course.
Emma pushes to her feet before I can say anything. “I should check on some things for the clinic,” she says, voice carefully even while her face is flush. My lips tingle all over, the need to continue kissing her overwhelming. “Good game.”
She disappears into the kitchen before I can stop her. I stare after her, my phone still ringing in my hand, heart still racing.
What in heck am I doing?