Page 51 of Fragile Heart

“Looks like a sensor that went bad,” he tells Joan. “I have the part number. Should be an easy swap.”

Joan nods and takes the small paper from Caleb.

“Thanks, Son,” she says. She turns to Melissa and tucks the slip of paper in her back pocket. “If I send you with a small basket, can you drop it off with Brielle?”

Melissa nods. “Of course, Joan.”

“Gift basket?” Caleb asks.

Joan shrugs. “Just thought it might help make tomorrow a bit better.”

I shove my curiosity away. Not that it matters because Caleb lets his run the show.

“What’s tomorrow?” he asks, crossing his arms, a frown pulling his lips down.

“Oh, it’s her anniversary,” Melissa says.

That jealousy surges in me again. This time, I force it far enough down I can’t feel it at all.

Chapter Twenty-Four

CALEB

Brielle’s sitting on the porch of the guest house when I stop the truck on the gravel drive. Her hair is down today, the strands resting along the deep v neckline of her dress, a few pieces falling across her arms as she stares out at the mountains in the distance. She’s traded her typical jeans and oversized shirt for a pretty sundress, the blue linen rustling in the breeze. Her feet are bare, a small gold anklet draped around one dainty ankle.

She’sstunning. She always is, though. She could be freshly woken up and her hair a mess, and she’d still leave me in this half-hard, breathless state of awe. And wearing only my shirt?

That might just be my favorite.

My phone vibrates with a new message, pulling me from the moment. I scowl. And then my stomach drops as I read the name. Sam is absolutelynotthe person I want to hear from today. Or the rest of the summer, really. I’ve never been irritated with the fire season as much as I am right now.

Official notice, man. Another one broke out. They’re overriding resets. Arrive by 2300. Northwest of Cheyenne. I’ll send you the exact location.

I send him a quick response before shoving out of the truck, tightening my hold on the bouquet as I stash my phone back in my pocket.

Is bringing flowers to a widowed Omega on her anniversary something a new love interest should do? According to the internet, absolutely not. Though there was a dearth of information that added the context of said widowed Omega being your scent match, so I’m taking it all with a grain of salt. Besides, the reality is that the thought of her spending any part of today alone and sad wrecks me. Especially when I’m literally wired to be the perfect balance to her.

So here I am.

I pause at the bottom step. She doesn’t notice me, her eyes unfocused, so I rap my knuckles against the support beam. Her gaze flicks to me. A heartbeat later, her cheeks flush. I swear I smell lavender, but the breeze sends it away from me before I can really breathe it in.

“Hey,” I offer, leaning against the beam and shoving my empty hand into the pocket of my jeans.

“Hi.” Her voice is shy. Her eyes drop to the flowers in my hand, and her teeth dig into her lip. “Melissa told you?”

“Mom did.”

“Oh,” she whispers, her eyes still locked on the flowers.

“Can I join you?” I ask.

She adjusts on the swing, moving until she’s pressed up against one arm. She motions to the newly opened spot beside her. I settle next to her before handing her the flowers.

“They made me think of you,” I offer when she turns a questioning gaze toward me. “And purple is your favorite color.”

Her cheeks grow even darker, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She murmurs a thank you as she grabs them, her fingers brushing mine in a touch so intimate, it takes my breath away. Her chest flushes. She glances away as she lays them across her lap.

I let the silence linger, not rushing for a topic of conversation. As the minutes pass, she relaxes next to me, adjusting in the smallest increments until she’s turned toward me rather than the view, her hair resting over one shoulder and her feet tucked up under her, the skirt of her dress hiding her legs.

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