Page 52 of Lavender and Honey

"Lydia," he said, his purple eyes crinkling at the corners as he offered me a cheeky grin. "I was just a few doors over doing a consult for a website design. Thought I'd swing by and see you before heading home."

“Welcome in then.” I told him, as I saw his eyes looking around the store. He hadn’t been here yet. Everyone else has been to my shop now. I gave him a small smile as he moved so he could lean against the counter in front of me.

"Start any new masterpieces lately?" Soren's tone was light, teasing, as he let his gaze wander over the neatly displayed canvases and sculptures that filled my store. He had a way of filling the space, his presence as bold as the colors on my palette.

"Nothing that would interest you," I replied, the words dancing out with a playful edge I didn't often use. "Unless you've developed a sudden passion for nineteenth-century impressionism."

"Ah, you got me," he chuckled, feigning a dramatic sigh. "I'm all about those dappled light effects." His easy banter coaxed a genuine smile from me, one that reached my eyes and softened the lines of my face. It was rare to feel this at ease with someone; Soren had slipped past my defenses without seeming to try.

"So," he began, leaning in closer as if we were conspirators sharing secrets, "how did your date with Lucian go?" The mischief in his voice was palpable, and it drew a warm blush to my cheeks.

"Date" seemed too simple a word for the evening that had unfolded. Lucian's presence had been intense, enveloping, yet gentle—like being wrapped in a blanket that was just a shade too warm. His scent lingered in my memory, a blend of leather and wisps of rain.

"It was... nice," I said, though 'nice' felt like painting a sunset with only grey.

Soren laughed, a rich sound that filled the room. "Nice, huh? Lucian seemed very pleased with himself when he got home, but tight-lipped on the details." His eyes sparkled with knowing, and for a moment, I wondered just how much Lucian had shared.

"Did he?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, to not betray the flutter of uncertainty in my chest. Had he truly enjoyed our time together, or had I read more into his smiles and lingering touches?

"Yep," Soren confirmed, still smiling. "But don't worry, Lydia. If his smugness is any indicator, he had a great time." There was comfort in his assurance, and yet, a part of me wished Lucian had felt compelled to share even the smallest detail with Soren—something that would confirm that what I'd felt that night wasn't entirely one-sided.

Soren's gaze softened as he caught the flicker of doubt in my eyes. "Hey," he said gently, reaching out to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. "I can't wait for my turn, you know. To take you out." He paused, a wistful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sadly, it's Finn going next."

"Really?" I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face, the warmth in my belly replacing any lingering uncertainty. "I'm looking forward to it, Soren. Our date, I mean."

"Good, because I've got some ideas that'll knock your socks off." His cheeky grin was infectious, and just as I was about to press him for hints, the tinkling bell above the shop door announced a new arrival.

"Lydia, my dear," called a familiar voice, one rich with the timber of age and experience. It was Mr. Peterson, one of my regulars, his silver hair catching the light as he stepped into the cozy cacophony of my craft store. He ambled over to the yarn section, , his fingers brushing over the skeins like a musician finding his favorite notes. The yarn I started to carry because of this couple, the section wasn’t very big, just a basket filled with random colors I find in the town over.

"Hello, Mr. Peterson," I greeted him warmly, my attention shifting from Soren to the elderly man who now held a ball ofsoft lavender yarn up to the light, inspecting its hue. "Looking for something special today?"

"Always," he replied with a twinkle in his eye, his affection for his mate as clear as ever in his quest for the perfect color. "Maggie's been knitting up a storm, and she's set on making a blanket for our great-grandkid due this fall."

"Congratulations! That's wonderful news." My heart swelled at the thought of generations connected by threads both literal and figurative.

As Mr. Peterson cradled the yarn in his weathered hands, he glanced up at Soren and me with a knowing smile that seemed to tease at secrets only he could see. "It's good to see you with some company around your own age, Lydia," he said, his voice a gentle chide edged with humor. "Not that we old timers don't enjoy your delightful presence."

I laughed softly, the sound mingling with the rustle of yarns and fabrics around us. "I wouldn't trade the stories and wisdom for anything, Mr. Peterson," I assured him, my words laced with genuine affection. "Your visits always brighten my day."

His laughter, warm and rich, filled the small space of my shop, echoing off the walls like a comforting embrace. It was moments like these that reminded me why Haven's Rest felt so much like home, even on days when the weight of solitude pressed a little too close.

The twinkle in Soren's eye held a mischievous spark as he leaned casually against the counter, his gaze flitting between Mr. Peterson and me. "Well, Lydia, hereisquite the catch, isn't she? It's no wonder we're all lining up for a chance to spend time with her," he quipped, his voice light but carrying an undercurrent of sincerity that sent a rush of warmth to my cheeks.

Mr. Peterson's laughter joined Soren's teasing, a hearty sound that bounced around the shop, enveloping us in its timbre. "You lads from Lucian's pack are lucky ones indeed," he said, settingdown the skeins of colorful yarn on the counter. "Make sure you keep this one close; not every day you find a gem like her."

Soren straightened, his posture reflecting a sudden earnestness as he met the older man's gaze. "We plan to," he replied, his tone firm, yet respectful. "As long as Lydia lets us, that is." His eyes shifted to mine, searching for confirmation— or maybe seeking permission— a silent question hanging between us.

I held his gaze for a moment, the gravity of his words sinking in. With a small nod, I allowed myself to acknowledge the possibility, however tentative it might be. Mr. Peterson's fingers, gnarled with the wisdom of his years, expertly selected the final skeins of yarn from the display before him. He bundled them together with a care that spoke of decades spent crafting keepsakes for loved ones. With a nod, more felt than seen beneath the brim of his weathered hat, he approached the counter where I stood, my hands steadying themselves on the cool surface.

"Thank you, Lydia," he said, his voice carrying the soft rasp of age as he placed his chosen items before me. The gentle crinkle at the corners of his eyes spoke volumes of his contentment— a look I had come to cherish from my regulars.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Peterson," I replied, scanning each item with practiced motions while wrapping them in brown paper. There was comfort in this routine, a quiet rhythm that lulled the fluttering thoughts of Lucian and last night's date deeper into the recesses of my mind.

As he handed over the notes for his purchase, our fingers brushed, and his smile widened, warm and reassuring. "Keep spreading your light, young lady," he said, tipping his hat before turning toward the door, his departure marked by the tinkle of the bell above.

The shop fell silent again, save for the whisper of Soren's presence beside me. He leaned casually against the display, his cheeky grin now tempered by an air of thoughtfulness.

"Mr. Peterson's right, you know," Soren murmured after a moment, breaking the hush that had settled. "You do have a way of brightening up this place."

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