Page 24 of Harvest His Heart
The smell of apples and cinnamon still clings to the air, but something colder slips in behind it.
Anson crosses to the cabinet, grabs two glasses, and fills them with bourbon from the pantry. Barely an inch of amber liquid, but my breath snags. My pulse spikes. The sound of pouring becomes the roar of memory … too loud, too close.
The scent hits—smoke, oak, a flash of red. My fingers go numb on the dish towel.
“Lace?” His voice is careful now. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine.”I’m not. The lie scrapes my throat. My eyes lock on the glasses like they might grow teeth.
He follows my stare, clocking the tremor in my hand, the way my breath goes shallow. No questions. No push. He moves. In one smooth motion, crossing to the sink, tipping both pours. Water hisses; the scent loosens its sting.
“Not worth it,” he says simply. He rinses the glasses, sets them upside down to dry. “Tea?”
I nod, once, grateful and undone. He fills two mugs from the kettle on the stove—warm cider, cinnamon steam—and sets one within easy reach, not crowding me.
“Do you want space,” he asks quietly, “or company that doesn’t touch unless you say so?”
The floor steadies under my feet. “Company. No touching. For a minute.”
“You got it.” He leans a hip against the counter, hands visible, voice easy. “For what it’s worth, I don’t drink much. Habit from the teams. Clarity keeps people alive. Reaching for it was … automatic. Won’t make that mistake again.”
I breathe in the apple heat and let my shoulders drop. “Thank you.”
“How about a deal?” His voice lowers, steady as rain. “Don’t need the details when something triggers. Just the warning. When the thunder starts building behind your ribs—when you feel it coming on—tell me it’s a storm day. I’ll be your shelter until it passes.”
A laugh breaks loose—small, shocked, relieved. “You want me to give you a storm warning?”
“Forecast. Barometer reading.” A ghost of a smile. “Whatever works.”
“Okay.” My voice steadies. “Then… whiskey is thunder, lightning.”
“Copy that.” He taps the counter once, an easy cadence. “Thunder and lightning mean tea, fire, and distance unless you ask otherwise.”
Something soft and aching unfurls in my chest. “Distance for now. Maybe not later.”
“Understood.”
Silence settles—the good kind. The oven pings; the room smells like cinnamon and browned sugar. He opens the door, heat rolling out, and slides the pie onto the stovetop. The crust shatters like thin glass under the knife.
He offers a fork. “Taste test?”
I take a bite. Butter, apple, a whisper of lemon. “It’s missing something,” I murmur, then meet his eyes. “Time. It needs to cool so everything can set.”
His gaze lingers, warm and knowing. “Then we let it rest.”
We don’t touch. We don’t rush. We stand with steaming mugs and watch the pie breathe. After a while, he says, “You keeping the flannel?”
“For now.” I tug the sleeve, hiding a smile. “It helps with the weather.”
He huffs a laugh, quiet and pleased. “Then consider it issued gear.”
Outside, the wind changes. Inside, the house holds steady—cider and cinnamon, flannel and firelight—while somewhere between us, the clouds part, and a sliver of sunlight breaks through.
There’s no formal dinner tonight, just pies cooling on racks. A cookie tin occasionally raided. No judgmental stares, backhanded comments about my curves, or what diet I should conform to. No pain, no past anywhere.
Another round of tea, cozy conversation, and I grab two dessert plates. Anson goes for the knife, pie server, insisting he slice.
I groan, eyeing the lattice-work suspiciously.
