Page 47 of Lavender and Honey

“Today is going to be a long day. I can feel it.” I muttered to myself as I went and gathered all my things for the day. Once my small bag was packed for the day, I slipped the strap over my shoulder, making my way out into the early morning air.

As I walked, I let my mind wander, anticipating the day ahead. My fingers itched to create, to lose myself in the colors and textures of my work. I quickened my pace letting me reach the store in record time. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, breathing in the scent of oil paints and clay that always seemed to greet me like an old friend. The rays of the early sun filtered through the windows, casting patterns on the floor and warming the room.

As I went through my opening routine— turning on lights, checking inventory, setting up displays— I tried to push thoughts of my drowned phone out of my mind. But a nagging worry persisted. What if someone tried to reach me? What if there was an emergency?

I shook my head, trying to dispel the anxious thoughts. "It's fine," I muttered to myself. "One day without a phone won't kill you."

The morning passed slowly, a trickle of customers coming in to browse or pick up orders. I tried to focus on my work, losing myself in the familiar motions of mixing paints and applying brushstrokes to canvas. What I didn’t know is that while my phone was off, how worried I would make four men who hadn’t heard from me since the early morning.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The knock at the door is firm and makes me come out of my haze of cleaning. I glance up from where I’m cleaning my brushes, the water tinted with hues of blues and greens swirling down into the sink. There, standing outside the shop, the Closed sign hanging as a barrier between us, is Lucien. The streetlights cast long shadows over the quiet sidewalk, outlining his figure in a soft amber glow.

He doesn’t look impatient or demanding, merely waiting with an air of calm expectancy. For me.

I hesitate, fingers unconsciously tightening around the paint streaked rag in my hands. Taking a steadying breath, I navigate through the familiar maze of easels and scattered art supplies. I reach the door and pause, my hand hovering over the lock. With a gentle click, I undo the latch and pull open the door. Lucien steps inside, his presence filling the space effortlessly. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t loom, but I feel him. The air shifts, charged with something unreadable.

The door clicks shut behind him.

“You weren’t answering your phone and we were worried…” He frowns looking at me, and “You’re still working.” It's not a question, just an observation.

I tuck the rag into my apron pocket. “It’s my store,” I murmur, trying to maintain the fragility of my own domain. “And my phone took a dive into the toilet this morning.”

There's a beat of silence as he processes this information, his frown easing into something softer, more understanding as his mouth quirks slightly. "... not working now I take it?"

I nod, unsure why I'm suddenly compelled to explain myself to him, to this man who somehow doesn't push or pull but simply exists in my space with a presence that's hard to ignore. "I planned to go get it fixed after work, but got caught up in a painting and now as you can see it is way past when the store would be open."

"Caught up," he echoes, his voice low and resonant. It vibrates through the quiet of the shop, stirring something within me.

"Yes… Caught up," I confirm, my defenses rising once again like bristles on a hedgehog. But he's still here, still watching me with an inscrutable gaze that doesn't demand anything yet seems to offer... what? Understanding? Acceptance? I don't know, and that's the most unsettling part.My heart taps an uneven rhythm against my ribs as I wait for him to speak again.

Lucien just shifts his stance, a subtle realignment of his broad shoulders that somehow seems to take the edge off the silence. “Have you eaten?” he asks, his voice gentle yet carrying through the room like a soft spoken command.

I blink, caught off guard. “What?” The question feels misplaced amid the tension, more intimate than anything else we’ve shared. A question about food shouldn't have the power to unnerve me, yet here I stand, unsettled by the simplest inquiryfrom this Alpha who doesn’t push, only waits. Waits for me to let down walls I didn’t even realize I’d built so high.

"Have you eaten?" he repeats, his tone imbued with the same casual quality one might use when commenting on the weather. It's how he says it— like it's the most natural thing in the world— that catches me off balance.

I frown, the crease between my brows deepening as I search for some semblance of normalcy in the question. “I… had coffee.”

Lucien exhales through his nose, a sound of mild disapproval that somehow speaks volumes. “That’s not food.” His expression remains unimpressed, and I fight the urge to bristle at the implication that I cannot take care of myself.

Crossing my arms, I suddenly become defensive. “I wasn’t hungry.”

He just looks at me— steady, unbothered. “Right.” Then, after a pause,

"Let me help you finish up," he says, his voice calm and somehow grounding, "then you are coming with me to have dinner… and then I will take you home." It's not a command, not really. It's an offer wrapped in the guise of a statement— a lifeline thrown with such casual precision that it leaves little room for argument. Yet, I nod, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying everyone. It's unlike me to lose track of time, to become so ensnared in my art that the world beyond these walls fades away.

"Okay," I murmur, setting aside my brush and gathering my things with more haste than I'd like to admit. The last canvas is covered; the paints are sealed. My apron, splattered with days of work, finds its hook on the wall.

We walk side by side to the door, and I turn the key in the lock with a decisive click. The familiar scent of pine and evening chill greets us as we step out into the night, the silence of Haven'sRest wrapping around us like a shawl. Lucien leads the way to his car parked under a nearby lamppost, its soft glow flickering slightly.

“We will head over to the diner. It has good food and it isn’t overly crowded.” he says. And we drive off into the quieter parts of town.

As Lucien's car glides through the streets, my gaze lingers on the passing scenery. It didn’t take long to get to our destination. The diner, nestled between two unassuming buildings, is as quaint as the rest of the town. Its sign, a vintage beacon of neon, hums softly, promising warmth and sustenance.

Lucien holds the door open for me, and we step into the low buzz of hushed chatter and clinking cutlery. The aroma of coffee and grilled food mingles in the air, grounding and homely. As we're shown to a booth tucked away in a corner, I slide in, feeling the weight of exhaustion I'd been ignoring settle onto my shoulders.

"Thank you," I say before I can stop myself, my voice barely above a whisper. It's an admission of need, however small, and it hangs between us. I know I can be standoffish sometimes when it comes to others caring for me.

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