Bear drives slowly, shoulders stiff, his knuckles white around the wheel. I sneak glances at him, at the way his jaw ticks, the muscle flexing there. He’s a storm contained, and I know every second here is costing him.
But he still came. For me.
That knowledge warms me right down to my bones, and I reach across and rest a hand on his thigh. It bunches beneath my fingers, and he flashes me a glance before his eyes return to the road.
We pass a florist on the corner. The pretty window display makes me crane my neck—vases of dahlias and roses, bright geraniums tumbling from baskets. The sign reads Mabel’s Flowers, the paint faded but cheerful.
“Bear, can we stop here?” I ask softly.
His brows crash together, but he pulls to the curb without comment. “Wait for me,” he rasps, and I nod. Wait for him to turn off the ignition, to step out, stride around to open my door.
When he helps me down, I feel a little self-conscious about my socks-for-shoes situation, but then his fingers swallow mine in his warmth and I exhale.
The bell above the door tinkles as I step inside, and the familiar smell nearly bowls me over—green, fresh, alive.
I inhale deeply, my heart skipping.
God, how I’ve missed this. My fingers in soil, watching beautiful buds bloom to life, creating my own piece of perfection for someone’s memorable day.
Behind the counter, a woman with a crown of silver curls looks up from trimming stems. Her smile is warm but faintly tired. “Morning, sweetheart. Haven’t seen you around here before.”
I glance back through the window.
Bear didn’t follow me inside—he’s standing guard at the door, arms folded, a dark sentinel keeping watch. But as I watch, his head swings and he pierces me with a fierce stare through the glass.
Still here, petal. Still watching. Always watching.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me feel safe. Warmer than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“I’m just... visiting,” I say quickly, stepping closer to the blooms. “You have such beautiful arrangements.”
“Thank you.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Been at it near forty years now. Can’t do the long days anymore, but I still open when I can.”
Something in her tone makes my heart squeeze. Not a complaint, exactly. More like resignation.
“Forty years?” I murmur, touching a daisy head gently. “That’s amazing.”
“Don’t know how much longer I’ll keep at it,” she says with a shrug. “But my beautiful blooms... they keep me company. Especially since my Arthur passed.”
I nod, throat tight at the sadness and loneliness in her voice.
After a quick chat, I thank her and step back outside.
Bear’s eyes catch mine instantly, his frown carved deep. I hurry to him and slip my hand into his before he can ask questions.
His chest caves in as he exhales loudly.
Then he jerks his head left. The drugstore.
We step inside and he grabs a basket. The aisles are neat, with shelves stocked high. I grab tampons, deodorant, shampoo, a hairbrush, a spare toothbrush, and a few more things. Bear prowls beside me like he’s scanning for threats, his massive frame drawing stares from half the store.
I catch them all—people staring brazenly, whispering behind their hands.
A couple of teenagers giggle until Bear’s head swings their way, and they scatter. One woman clutches her purse tighter and gives us a wide berth.
That sets a low light under my temper, but then I notice, too, that just as many people nod at my Bear. A few men tip their hats.
Someone calls, “Hunter,” with a small wave, and I think it’s one of the logging men.
