Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
I lean in, my lips brushing against her temple, then her cheek, before finally capturing her mouth in a kiss. It’s slow and tender, a far cry from the sarcastic banter and fiery tension that usually defines us. This kiss is something else entirely—a promise, a declaration, a quiet surrender.
When we finally pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine, her hands clutching the front of my shirt. “I’ve never felt like this before,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Good,” I say, my tone rough with emotion. “Because neither have I.”
She smiles, and for the first time in years, I feel like I’ve found my place—not in the mine, not in the isolation of my cabin, but right here, with this woman in my arms.
Chapter Eleven
Tessa
The shrill beep of my phone jolts me awake, and I groggily fumble for it on the nightstand. It takes a moment for the words on the screen to register—Flood detected in basement.
Panic grips me as I throw back the covers and rush downstairs. My feet slap against the wooden stairs as I take them two at a time, the sound of rushing water growing louder with each step.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.”
The sight that greets me is nothing short of devastation. Water is pooling around my plants, drowning the delicate greenery I’ve spent so much time nurturing. My tiny indoor greenhouse—my sanctuary—is under siege.
I race to the far corner where the water valve is, but it’s jammed tight. The wrench I left nearby does nothing to budge it. Tears sting my eyes as I yank at the handle in vain, my hands slipping on the slick metal.
With shaking hands, I grab my phone again and scroll to the one name I swore I wouldn’t call unless it was an absolute emergency. Finn Taylor.
It rings twice before his gruff voice answers. “Tessa?”
“My basement’s flooding,” I blurt out, my voice shaky. “I don’t know what to do. The valve’s stuck, and my plants—”
“I’m on my way.”
The line goes dead before I can respond, and for once, I’m thankful for Finn’s no-nonsense approach.
When Finn arrives minutes later, Shep is right at his heels, tail wagging despite the chaos. Finn doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. He assesses the scene with a quick, critical glance before shrugging off his jacket and stepping into the water like it’s no big deal.
“Where’s the valve?” he asks, his voice steady and calm, grounding me in the chaos.
“In the corner, but it’s stuck,” I say, my voice trembling.
Finn nods and rolls up his sleeves, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be allowed to look that good. He strides to the valve, his boots splashing through the water, and grips the handle with one hand while steadying the pipe with the other.
I stand there, helpless and awestruck as he wrestles with the stubborn metal. His muscles strain, the veins in his arms standing out as he grunts with the effort. It’s distracting in a way I really shouldn’t be thinking about right now.
After a tense minute, there’s a creak and then a satisfying click as the valve finally gives way.
“Got it,” Finn says, straightening and wiping his hands on his jeans. He looks at me, his gaze softer than I expect. “You okay?”
I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “Thank you. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Good thing you called me, then.” There’s a hint of teasing in his tone, but it’s overshadowed by the way his eyes linger on mine.
We work together to salvage what we can, moving pots and plants to higher ground, mopping up water where it’s shallow enough. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable—it’s charged, thick with unspoken words and the hum of something I can’t quite name.
Finn picks up a potted fern, his hand brushing against mine as he hands it to me. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I nearly drop the plant.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Wouldn’t want to lose this one.”
I don’t think he’s talking about the fern.
By the time we’ve cleared most of the damage, my knees ache, and my hands are covered in dirt and grime. Finn leans against the wall, his shirt soaked through and clinging to his broad chest. He looks like he belongs here, like he was made for moments like this—steady, dependable, maddeningly handsome.
“Why do you even have this setup in your basement?” he asks, gesturing to the remnants of my greenhouse.
“It’s my escape,” I admit. “My way of bringing life into a world that feels... empty sometimes.”
Finn’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression softening. “You’re not empty, Tessa.”
The words hit me harder than they should, and I look away, focusing on the soil smeared across my hands. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” Finn says, stepping closer. “It’s just a setback. You’ll rebuild it.”