The wind stirred as he left, catching her hair and whispering through the trees. The last slant of sunlight dipped behind the ridge. Moments ago, the garden had been full of life. Now it felt empty, like something good had been taken with him.
She stood still as the first cool breath of night slid over her skin.
And watched him disappear into the gathering dark.
Chapter 4
IT TOOK BETH FOUR TRIPSto haul all the jars of jam and pickles in from the garden and line them up on the kitchen table. Her arms ached. Her back twinged. Her hair was still damp from dunking her head under the hose out of sheer fury-induced heat and spite. She wrapped a few jars in white cloths, lowered them into the big enamel canning pot, filled it with water, and turned on the burner. The stove hissed mirroring her mood perfectly. She sat down at the table, eyes sweeping over the neat rows of glass containers filled with fruit and vegetables. Nice. It was nice
And yet her stomach was tight. Her shoulders hunched, not from effort, but from something that hadn’t quite worked its way out.
Her gaze snagged on the last jar she’d filled. Pears.
She rubbed her palms on her thighs.What in the actual hell had happened?
She’d been minding her own damn business. Just a normal day in the garden, drowning in produce and poor time management. Then, of all people, Gael had shown up and proceeded to not only fix the problem like a smugly efficient elf in shining armor, but he’d also had the nerve to be charming.
Charming.
He’d made her laugh, hadn’t he?
He’d talked about his work with an unexpected boyish energy that had crept under her skin before she realized it. The whole afternoon had been, against all odds, good. Better than it would have been alone, and not just because of his magical help.
And then it had all gone to hell.
Because Gael, former Mr. I’m-Too-Broody-For-Small-Talk, had asked her out. Okay, on a hike, but still. It was basically the same around here.
And thenthathad spiraled into a fight.
About Bryn. And Gael’s honor.
Now, sitting in her quiet kitchen with her jars cooling and her blood simmering under the surface, Beth realized the most astonishing part of it all was that she felt bad.
Not because she’d been wrong, but because she’d hurt him. She’d seen it. That flinch wasn’t rehearsed. His reaction had been so raw, so immediate, it twisted something inside her. He’d looked like he didn’t deserve it. Or worse, like he couldn’t understand why she didn’t see him the way he saw himself. Maybe he was used to people going along with him. Power, status, and those painfully symmetrical cheekbones made it likely people just fell in line with him. Although... it felt almost like he hadn’t wanted it to beherwho pushed back.
She sighed, long and heavy, and rose to move the remaining jars from the table to the counter. The water had reached a boil; she shut it off, the silence harder in the sudden absence of bubbling.
Without another thought, she headed to her bedroom, crossed into the bathroom, and started the bath. She’d earned it, and her aching body agreed. Back in the bedroom, she pulled out her favorite vinyl, a mix of Vivaldi, Chopin, Beethoven, and Debussy, something relaxing to unknot her brain. She dropped the needle, grabbed clean clothes, and promised herself a full hour of nothing but minty-salt bathwater and the blissful absence of elf drama.
And she tried. Honestly.
But glacier-blue eyes with a violet soul kept slicing through the steam. They floated behind her eyelids every time she tried to breathe deep. His voice, serious and low, tangled withher memories of the day. The weird, surprising softness. The unexpected laugh. The effort he’d made.
It left her with a sour, stubborn ache no bath could smooth .
Guilt, mostly, because she didn’t like hurting people, even ones she didn’t trust.
Annoyance, too, because this bath was supposed to relax her, not spiral her into an emotional court hearing.
And, yes, bafflement, because what in thehellwas he doing askingherto go hiking?
The other feelings—the curiosity, the interest, the flutteringwhat if—she ignored with military focus.
She rinsed her hair, shaved her legs, because why the hell not, dried off, and padded into the kitchen to make dinner. Leftover rotisserie chicken would turn into tacos with minimal effort, and that thought cheered her up a little. It wasn’t until she was sitting at the table with tacos and a beer that she finally picked up her phone.
A red notification dot blinked from an unknown number’s message.
“Huh,” she muttered.
