There was a part of me that hoped I wouldn’t.That prayed for death.It would be a welcome alternative to the hell I’d been living with Victor.
That was no longer the case.
Now I couldn’t wait to wake up each day, knowing I’d soon see Henry.
A week had passed since we began our morning walks, and they’d quickly become the highlight of my day.
I’d gotten into a routine of waking up as the sun started to rise.After making two cups of coffee, I’d head out onto the porch.Within minutes, Cato would come bounding around the bend first, tail wagging furiously, with Henry close behind.
I told myself it was the fresh air I looked forward to.The way the mist lifted from the fields.The quiet peace of being surrounded by nature.
Deep down, I knew better.
It was him.
Our walks had stretched longer each day.What started as a half-hour around the fields had turned into two-hour explorations that left my legs pleasantly sore and my heart doing strange things I couldn’t seem to control.
Today, we’d hiked to the old cemetery, where the weathered stones leaned like sleepy sentinels in the grass, and stopped by the original log cabin, the one Henry said had been built when this land was first settled.
He spoke about history the way I spoke about gardens.As though he understood the importance of things that took root.It made me want to stay out here with him for even longer just to listen to him talk.
Thankfully, the pain in my knee was now down to a dull throb.Even the gash on my forehead was doing better.Krystal had removed the stitches yesterday.There was a scar, but it didn’t bother me.Every time I looked at it, Henry’s words echoed in my mind.
Scars remind us of the battles we fought and won.
I liked that.
He’d fought plenty of battles of his own.Some he was still fighting.But lately, he’d been lighter.So had I.
With every morning we spent together, he somehow brought back pieces of me I’d forgotten existed.
He’d asked about my father, and I’d told him how I loved spending time in the floral shop with him.How he’d taught me every plant had its own language.Different light.Different soil.Different needs.
Henry had listened like he actually cared, not because he was trying to fix or analyze me, but because he genuinely wanted to know these things.
In return, he’d shared things I hadn’t expected.About his mother reading to him.The struggles he had with his father.What prompted him to join the military.
He was the first person I’d met in years I didn’t have to pretend around.The first person I could be myself around.
And thanks to him, I was slowly figuring out who that was again.
Now, as we approached the guesthouse, that bittersweet ache returned to the surface.The one that became more profound every morning when we said goodbye.
My mother had started dropping hints about me moving back up to the main house.I kept insisting it made more sense to stay here since Henry worked long hours, and I spent most of my days with her.
While itwastrue, it wasn’t the whole truth.
In reality, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to live under the same roof with Henry again.Not because I didn’t want to.But because of what it might mean if I did.
“Thanks for the walk,” I said, turning to face him when we reached the porch.“And the conversation.”
“Hope I didn’t bore you too much.”He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking on his feet.“I’ve always been a bit of a history buff.It’s why I couldn’t say no to this place when I found it.”
“Not at all.”I smiled.“I like learning more about you.What you’re passionate about.You’re a very…intriguing person, Henry Fontaine.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
He held my gaze for several long moments.Long enough for heat to pool low in my belly.Long enough for the air to hum with something electric and undeniable, especially when I stole a glance at his lips.
