It was because she was afraid of letting go of howgoodit was. She was afraid of reality.
She wasafraid.
After everything, am I really going to let myself be a coward?The thought stung. Nelly was fiercely proud of her independence and what she’d made of her life. It felt like an insult to that same life to let something as ugly asfeardrive a wedge between herself and the man that, somewhat inexplicably, seemed to adore her.
Lifting her arm, she rubbed her stinging eyes against her forearm.I just… miss him.
It wasn’t about the holiday. It wasn’t about pride. It was about Clark. Just Clark.
He’d told her firmly to call if she needed anything, anything at all, and that he’d swing by in the morning to get his truck. Realistically, she knew Clark was only a text message or call away. He wasn’t even physicallyfar.She’d never been but she knew the land and all the ranches in her area from her work. The Wilson homestead was less than two miles away if she cut across the pasture and hills separating their homes.
But it wasn’t fair to need him so much when she couldn’t give him whatheneeded in return.
Clark needed her to be certain about him, and until she was, it would just be torture to keep him around for the sake of her own feelings.
But that’s the worst part,she thought, squeezing her stinging eyes shut against her sleeve as her breaths hiccuped in and out.I know my own feelings. I know that I’m already falling in love with him. I know that I hate him not being here. I know how much I want to kiss him and talk to him and share everything with him. So why is this sohard?
Frustrated with herself, Nelly dropped her arm with a huff. “Can’t you just be—Oh.”
She blinked. The pink paper-wrapped package on her little entrance table didn’t disappear when she opened her eyes again. It sat there, staring innocently back at her, as she stood rooted to the spot.
Had they both forgotten about the gift?
Nelly wracked her mind, trying to think back on their days together. They’d been so crammed full of laughter and food and sensuality that there hadn’t been room for anything else. She hadn’twantedanything else. No gift compared to just being with him. The memory of Clark’s present had faded into the background as she basked in her orc’s presence.
Breath hitching, Nelly carelessly tossed her bottle of cleaner and the old rag onto the couch before she lunged for the gift.
Holding it in her hands, her heart skipped a beat.Oh, Clark.
The paper was bright pink and carefully creased at the corners. One of those crinkly, elaborate plastic bows had been pasted onto a corner. Written just below it in sharp handwriting was her name and a tiny heart.
Collapsing onto the backrest of the couch, Nelly perched there as she carefully set the rectangular package in her lap. Her fingers shook as she delicately peeled the tape off.
Sucking her lips between her teeth, she held her breath as she extracted the gift from the paper, careful not to tear it.
“Gods,Clark.”
The gift was roughly the size of a book and about as heavy as one. Made of polished wood and cleanly cut pieces of cardboard, it was clearly handmade. The screws on the top were polished to a high shine and the scent of warm wax emanated from the wood, reminding her of the many workshops and campgrounds she’d visited growing up.
Staring up at her were the wordsNelly’s Flowersframed by a simple vine motif burned into the wood.
It’s a flower press.
Her chest seized. The longer she stared, the harder it became to breathe. A sense of urgency crawled up her spine in a prickling wave.
Suddenly frantic, Nelly balanced the press in her lap before she tore at her gloves, which she hadn’t removed in some vain hope that Clark might come back. Longing for her mate was a sharp pang in her chest.I need to know. I need to see him. I need—
She pressed her palms flat against the wood and, before she could overthink it, lowered her barriers.
A seed in the dark. Warm, wet soil. A seedling pushing toward the sun. Cold air, sugar coursing through wooded veins. Time. Layer after layer. Time. Insects burrowing. Decay, then the bite of a saw’s teeth. The whirr of another saw. Hands in work gloves. Wood. A pile. Rain. Snow. Hot sun and the slow drying of wood fibers. More time.
Familiar green hands. A beloved face peering down, assessing, turning the wood over in strong hands. A brightly lit workshop, dark windows, the sound of rock music. Clark’s steady rhythm as he passed a piece of sandpaper back and forth. The scent of burning wood, fresh and astringent, as he carefully, oh-so-carefully, burned her name into the press.
His smile of satisfaction. The way his chest swelled with a deep breath as he painstakingly wrapped it in paper.
His voice, distorted through time and the echo of memory but still achingly familiar, “I hope this makes you smile like you make me smile, sugar.”
Nelly gasped for air. The screws dug into her chest when she hugged the press close, but she didn’t care. Clark wasn’t there to hug, so the press had to suffice.
