“All of them?”
He nodded, his jaw tight.
Helen stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her simple gesture said everything.
He exhaled and sank back onto the stump, pulling her into his lap. He buried his face in her hair, drinking in the scent of sun and lavender. His heart’s lake swelled. She could always make everything feel softer.
From the moment they met, Nic had wanted Helen with the force of a wildfire—fast, consuming, impossible to ignore. He had wanted to touch her, to kiss her, to press his body against hers until he could quiet the ache she stirred in him.
Even before he truly understood what it meant to make love, his imagination had supplied the missing details. His desire had been visceral, immediate—a hunger of the body, not yet of the soul.
He used to believe that once that fire was satisfied, it would die down. That he would catch his breath, grow bored, and move on.
But weeks passed. Then months. And his heart shifted.
The ache didn’t fade—it deepened. Softened. Sweetened. She became more than someone to crave; she became someone he needed. Not for pleasure, but for peace.
Her laugh. Her deep sweetness. The way she devoured rare beef and wanted to kiss him after. The way she spoke to Dolly like the slovenly beast was her housemaid. These weren’t quirks to be tolerated—they were threads woven through his days, things he began to look for, to miss when she wasn’t near.
He loved her.
Not just with fire, but with stillness.
It startled him one morning, the thought coming in quiet and clear,I could marry her.
He hadn’t been thinking about marriage. Not seriously. But the idea arrived unannounced and unshakable, like a song he didn’t remember learning. He tried to ignore it. Tried to laugh it off. But the thought stayed.
He was in trouble. Deep, delicious, irreversible trouble.
And for the first time in his life, he rejoiced.
Helen gazed into his eyes. “Tell me what happened, darling. They’re still being impossible?”
He leaned back with a groan. “I gave clear instructions to Martin and Esaw—told them exactly how to frame the front window, right down to spacing and measurements. The glass I ordered is cut to fit. They had two full days. This morning, I come by and the whole layout’s off.”
Helen stroked his hair gently, taking in his struggles in that silent, patient way she does
“I pointed it out, asked them to fix it,” he went on, his voice tight. “Instead of doing the work, Martin says I should’ve told them the glass was pre-ordered. Esaw says my design’s non-standard—how were they supposed to know the size? I reminded them—again—that I’d given exact specs. They didn’t care. And then during lunch I hear them mouthing off to the others, blaming me for the mistake.”
Helen sat straighter. “Seriously?”
“Oh, it gets better.” His laugh was dry. “Rene made some joke about me not being grown enough for my father’s britches. Got the whole crew laughing.”
Helen frowned. “So what did you do?”
“I sent them home. All of them. Told them they’d be docked half a day’s pay and that if they wanted to keep their jobs, they’d show up tomorrow with a better attitude.”
She traced a slow circle along his collarbone. “You were right to do it. They needed to be reminded who’s in charge.”
He let out a heavy sigh, the weight of this responsibility pressed down on his shoulders, threatening to make him crumble like a poorly stacked brick wall.
He stared past her at the skeleton of the house. “What if none of them show up tomorrow? What if this falls apart and I can’t finish?”
“You’ll finish. And if they don’t return...I willhelp you build it.”
Nic blinked. “You’ll what?”
“I can learn,” she said, her blue eyes serious. “I’ve watched enough. I know how to carry boards. I’m strong enough to hold up a wall frame. And I’m very good with a hammer if you need something smashed.”
