Page 45 of Matthew
“You know it. Man runs that FieldSource depot as if it’s the Pentagon.”
Callie chuckled. “My dad always said Ellis could inventory a shipment blindfolded. Glad to see he hasn’t changed.”
Grinning, Mason nodded. “Figured you’d want the compost and potting mix in before it turns into a slip ‘n slide.”
They got to work—Mason operating the pallet jack while Callie and Matthew guided two large stacks of premium compost and one of organic potting mix onto the gravel, covering them quickly with tarps as the wind picked up.
No weird add-ons. No mistakes in the manifest. It was a clean, standard delivery.
Once the last tarp was secure, Mason handed her the clipboard.
Callie signed with a flourish, then peeled off the yellow carbon copy and folded it into her pocket.
“Appreciate you making the run,” she said.
“Anytime.” He tipped an imaginary hat and jogged back to the cab. “You two stay dry.”
The truck rumbled back down the drive, taillights flashing once as it turned onto the main road.
Matthew looked after it for a beat, then shifted his focus back to her. “That went smoothly.”
“Let’s not jinx it,” she said, brushing dirt from her hands. “Storm’s almost here.”
Callie brushed a strand of hair off her damp forehead, heart hammering louder than it should’ve been. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was the man beside her, watching her with an expression too unreadable to ignore.
“Thanks for staying to help,” she said, her voice softer now.
Matthew’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re not in this alone.”
And just like that, something inside her shifted. Again.
“But this is normal nursery work, not ESI stuff.” She was about to say more, when a fat drop of rain hit her cheek.
Then another. And within seconds, the skies opened without mercy. The wind kicked harder, sending a gust of rain sideways. Callie flinched as droplets slapped her arms.
“Come on,” Matthew said, grabbing her hand to pull her to the nearest building.
She didn’t argue. Her shirt was clinging to her like wet paper, and her skin prickled with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Sammy ran ahead and ducked into the old lean-to by the vegetable greenhouse.
She altered her course and tugged Matthew toward Sammy’s chosen spot, laughter bursting from her as they met up with her dog.
The lean-to wasn’t much—a wooden structure with three sides, a wide overhang, and the sturdy table she and her grandfather had built years ago. But it offered shelter from the worst of the rain and enough privacy to feel as if the rest of the world had fallen away.
Matthew followed her in, dripping wet, his shirt plastered to his chest and dark hair slicked back from his face. His eyes locked on hers, intense and searching, unsure whether he should laugh or kiss her again.
She could hardly breathe.
Sammy shook out beside them, spraying water like a lawn sprinkler, then curled up beneath the table with a huff.
Callie pressed a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath and maybe slow her heartbeat, but it was pointless. The storm wasn’t only outside anymore. It was in her blood. Crackling, rushing, alive.
Matthew stepped closer, his hand brushing wet strands of hair from her face. “You okay?”
“I think so.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant it to.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Lingered. “Because I’m about two seconds away from crossing a line I won’t want to come back from.”
