Page 11 of Blossoms and Bloodlines
She glanced between them. “Anyone need anything?”
“Chef R made spinach and leek soup,” Aryon added, catching his eye. “I assume you didn’t eat on your way here?”
“I didn’t,” Gael answered. “And I’d love some.”
“Hard cider?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
Aryon stood, stretching a little. “I’ll go grab everything. Need to make a quick call anyway.” He looked over at Beth. “Sit for five minutes, would you? You’ve been running since opening.”
And just like that, he and Beth were sitting across from each other in a silence that felt anything but quiet. He opened his mouth to say... he wasn’t even sure what, but nothing came. Just the weight of existing in the same space as her pressed hard against his chest.
The silence stretched, thick and brittle. He couldn’t leave it there. So he reached for the nearest thread. “Are you going to the festival?”
“No.”
One word.
Yeah. Okay. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything else.
But the thing was, it still bothered him. That she believed Bryn. That she didn’t ask. That she’d looked at him likehewas the bad one in the room. It wasn’t just about safety, Aryon and Elara would keep an eye on her if they even sensed a hint of something amiss. It wasn’t that.
It was that she’d heard the worst of him, and believed it, blindly.
He ground his teeth. “Busy?”
“The pub’s closed that night. I’ll use the time to finish things.” She paused for a beat, maybe to say something else. But in the end, all she said was, “I’ll go check your food.”
Then she got up and walked away.
And Gael sat there, staring after her, jaw still tight, telling himself it didn’t sting.
IT WAS THE PERFECTday for a Mabon celebration. The sun hung low in the sky, golden and warm without the oppressive heat of summer. A breeze rustled through the amber-drenched trees, carrying the scent of ripe fruit, distant woodsmoke, and cinnamon and apples. Everything was balanced, and the world seemed to exhale.
Hands in his pockets and an easy smile on his lips, Gael strolled from downtown to the outskirts of Mystic Hollow. Birds had replaced the buzz of the crowd, yards grew wider and less manicured until they gave way to open fields, scattered trees, and the watchful embrace of the mountain range beyond.
And then there it was.
Her house.
Small, yes, but beautiful in the way of things fiercely loved. Color bloomed everywhere. Pink weeping begonias spilled from baskets by the door. A vase of peonies caught the sunlightlike a celebration. Tall sunflowers lined one side of the house, standing like cheerful sentinels. Pride lived in little things like carefully swept steps, freshly painted window boxes bursting with marigolds, bright orange against weathered wood.
He walked past the front gate and followed the white picket fence until her garden came into view, and like the last time he’d been there, he could only stare.
Okay, yes. She was human. But hell if she couldn’t give a dozen elves a run for their magic.
The garden was just as he remembered. Messy, chaotic, and dangerously alive. Flowers and vegetables tangled together in beautiful disarray. Scarlet runner beans climbed their stakes like they owned the place; a fat pumpkin curled in the shade. Basil, raspberries, and carrots all spilled from their corners in joyful overgrowth. There was no formal plan, no symmetry, just abundance.
And there she was.
In the middle of it all, standing at a long, beat-up folding table strewn with tomatoes, pears, cucumbers, and an obscene number of apples, Beth. Her fists were on her hips as she glared at the produce like it had personally wronged her. Shorts, a faded tank, skin sun-bronzed and smudged with dirt. Scratches on her shins. Knees streaked with garden grime. Her hair was piled into a gravity-defying mess, held together by hope and a rogue pencil. Sweat slicked the back of her neck, gleaming at her temples and probably everywhere else.
She was radiant.
There was something real, grounded, generous in the sight of her. She didn’t belong in the garden as much as she was part of it. A modern-day Mother Earth with a stubborn streak and a glare that could wilt weeds. He caught the scent of earth and wind on her skin, the hum of life singing quietly through her aura.
Gael’s breath caught as desire detonated, and it was not some soft, silken fantasy. He wanted herhere.
