“I’m sorry. That must be hard.”
Jasmin let out a quiet snort and turned to unbuckle another strap. She didn’t answer.
Nic was always most at ease when his hands were busy. While Jasmin unpacked her purchases, he returned to the porch. The spring air was soft, and the sun filtered gently through the trees—good weather for a bit of honest labor.
The work was satisfying. He relished the crack and groan of old boards being torn free, the sharp rhythm of nails driving into fresh lumber, the crisp bite of the saw cleaving through wood. It was grounding—taking something neglected and breathing it back to life, giving function to the broken. It cleared his mind, steadied his heart.
He had just pried up the last of the rotted planks when Jasmin’s voice called him in for lunch. After rinsing off at the well, he stepped inside. The scent hit him first: herbs and roasted meat, the tang of vinegar and sweet spice.
“Everything looks incredible,” he said as he sat down, eyeing the full table. “But you really didn’t need to go to all this trouble.”
“Nonsense,” Jasmin said, already filling his plate. “I love cooking. It’s a pleasure to feed someone who appreciates it.”
He sliced into the roasted chicken, steam rising from the juicy cut. “Your husband is a lucky man. I imagine he misses meals like this.”
Jasmin’s smile flickered. Her tone cooled. “I doubt he’s missing much.”
Nic took the hint and let the silence settle. He had no business offering commentary on anyone else’s strained romance—especially not hers. But the quiet between them held a current, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
The food was extraordinary. The chicken, tender and herb-rich. Sautéed mushrooms and onions, savory with just a trace of wine. A pickled vegetable salad that danced between sweet and sharp. But it was the berry tart that lingered—tangy, creamy, indulgent.
An hour passed in a slow, golden drift.
Nic leaned back, full to the brim, licking a trace of cream from his lip. “How often is your husband away?”
“Each winter and spring,” she said, gathering the dishes. “He works in White Wood—his family keeps sheep there.”
“You stay here the whole time? Why not go with him? Or visit your family?”
Jasmin shrugged. “My sister’s in Chroma, but she has little ones and a full house. And I’ve done a winter in White Wood—it rains more than it breathes.”
He chuckled. “That it does.”
She wiped down the table, methodical and focused. As she leaned forward to scrub a stubborn spot, her blouse shifted—subtle, unintentional. Nic’s gaze caught on the slope of her breasts, the soft lines of her back flowing into hips. Heswallowed hard and sat back in his chair, but the distance offered only a different view—no less dangerous.
He turned his head, but it was already too late.
The scrape of his chair startled him. He stood too quickly, breath shallow, heart pounding. Jasmin rose too, and for a beat, they simply faced each other. She seemed to see everything in his expression—there was no disguising it now.
Heat flared in his cheeks. “I should get back to the porch,” he muttered, brushing past her.
“Wait,” she said gently, touching his arm. “You have cream—"
Before he could protest, her fingertip brushed the corner of his mouth. The touch lingered.
His pulse roared in his ears.
She stepped closer, her voice a whisper. “Have you thought about me, Nic?”
He froze.
The warmth of the cottage, the smell of herbs and roasted chicken, the softness of her voice—everything narrowed around him like a noose. His heartbeat kicked at his ribs.
“Jasmin...” he began, but couldn’t finish. Her question still rang in the air, and he hadn’t answered.
Yes. He had thought about her. Not just the day she saved him, but the quiet after. The way she tied back her curls. The steady competence. The gentle way she listened.
But he had also thought about Helen. Her voice. Her eyes. The way she looked at him when she was trying to stay angry but couldn’t. The promises they hadn’t figured out how to keep.
