We bump heads again. Harder this time.
Pain explodes behind my eyes. I lose my balance, feet slipping on the wine-soaked floor. My legs go out from under me, and I land hard on my ass.
“Fuck,” Eli says, scrambling toward me. “Amber!”
He reaches for me, his face full of genuine alarm. He grabs my arm to steady me, his other hand hovering as if he’s afraid to touch me and make it worse.
“Are you hurt? Did you hit your tailbone?”
I sit there, sprawled on the dirty floor of the market, covered in purple wine, holding my bleeding hand, with a throbbing headache. I look up at him—this kind, gorgeous, concerned man who smells like sugar and safety—and I feel the walls cracking.
The panic from the phone call, the shame of the almost-relapse, the humiliation of falling on my ass—it all surges up at once.
I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and let this nice man pity me. I can’t let him see how broken I really am.
“I’m fine,” I gasp out, scrambling to my feet. I ignore his outstretched hand. I ignore the stinging in my palm and the ache in my tailbone. “I have to go.”
“Wait, your hand?—”
“It’s fine!” I practically shout it, then wince at my own volume. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about the wine.”
I turn and run. I don’t look back to see if he’s watching. I don’t look to see the mess I made. I push through the automatic doors and stumble out into the cold air.
I get into my car and slam the door, locking it immediately. I put the key in the ignition and my hands are shaking so badly I can’t get it to turn.
This was a really bad idea. A terrible, horrible, no-good idea. I should have just stayed at the flower shop. I should have just eaten the damn cookie.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the image of Eli’s concerned eyes, trying to forget how good it felt to be touched by someone who wasn’t angry.
CHAPTER FOUR
Eli
It takesa solid two minutes for the world to stop spinning and for my senses to realign after that collision. I stand there in the aisle, blinking, the smell of broken wine filling my nose.
My glasses are slightly askew, so I take them off and wipe the lenses on the hem of my shirt, trying to process what just happened.
One minute, I was reaching for a bottle of merlot for a reduction I wanted to test tonight, and the next, a hurricane in a sweater slammed into my cart, sending glass flying everywhere.
Amber.
The name rolls around in my head. I’ve seen her. I know I have. Fox Hollow is small enough that you recognize faces, even if you haven’t spoken.
Knightly Blooms. She’s the one with the intense eyes and the hands that are always gentle with the stems.
But just now… she looked like she was running from a fire. The panic in her gaze was visceral, a raw thing that made my Alpha instincts sit up and pay attention.
She ran out. She actually fled.
I look down at the puddle of purple liquid spreading across the linoleum. A store employee is already approaching with amop and a caution sign, looking less than thrilled about the mess.
“Excuse me,” I call out to the cashier, a woman named Martha whose name tag is pinned slightly crooked to her vest. I gesture to the few items remaining in my cart—butter, heavy cream, a bundle of thyme. “I need to pay for these. I’ll be right back to help clean up the glass.”
Martha waves a dismissive hand, scanning a barcode for a customer in line ahead of me. “Don’t worry about it, Eli. Go do what you need to do. Bobby’s got the glass.”
I nod my thanks, abandoning the cart near the register. I don’t care about the wine. I care about the woman who looked like she was on the verge of shattering completely.
Stepping outside, the cold air hits me like a physical weight. It’s brisk, the kind of damp chill that seeps into your bones.
