Chapter 8: A Thorn Between Them
The ceramic jar of violets sat on the passenger seat of his black Range Rover, a silent, fragrant passenger. Eli drove with a strange, focused calm, the noise of the training ground fading into the city's afternoon hum. He didn’t go home. He followed the familiar route on autopilot, the one he’d taken every Thursday for months, always pretending it was just a convenient stop on his way.
The Petal Pit. The sign was faded, the ‘i’ in ‘Pit’ a clumsily painted daisy. He parked out front, killing the engine. For a long minute, he just sat. The adrenaline from the locker room, from carrying that jar through a gauntlet of knowing grins, had settled into a low, steady pulse in his veins. He felt exposed, as if he’d left his armor back on the bench.
He pushed through the shop door. The bell jangled, an archaic, cheerful sound.
The scent hit him first. It always did. Not a single perfume, but a layered symphony: the peppery spike of geraniums, the sweet, almost rotten richness of lilies, the clean linen smell of freesia. And underneath it all, the damp, earthy scent of soil and greenery. Sunlight streamed through the front window, catching motes of dust and pollen hanging in the air.
Hadley was behind the worn oak counter, her back to him, reaching for something on a high shelf. She stretched, the fabric of her simple linen shirt pulling taut. Then she flinched, a sharp, sudden intake of breath.
“Damn it,” she muttered, pulling her hand back.
Eli was already moving, crossing the small space in three long strides. “What happened?”
She turned, clutching her finger. A bead of dark red blood welled up from the pad of her index finger. A rose thorn, wicked and curved, was still embedded in her skin. She looked from her hand to his face, and her expression shifted from annoyance to something else. His own face must have shown something—a stark, unmasked worry—because she laughed, soft and breathless.
“It’s just a prick, Bedfield. Don’t look so stricken.” She waved her uninjured hand, dismissing his concern. Then her eyes dropped to his hands, resting on the counter. His knuckles were scarred, always would be, and the right two were freshly scabbed over from a misplaced tackle in training two days ago. A slow smile touched her lips. “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as your knuckles.”
The way she said it, casual and knowing, as if she’d been studying the map of his injuries, unraveled him. Every rehearsed line of thanks for the flowers, every casual remark he’d practiced on the drive over, vanished.
He just stared, watching the blood trace a slow path down her finger. “You have something for that?”
“In the back. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” The words came out rougher than he intended. He gestured with his chin. “Go. Clean it.”
She held his gaze for a challenging second, then shrugged. “Okay, Doctor. Come on, then.”
She led him through a curtain of hanging beads into the back room. It was cooler, darker, lined with industrial shelves holding buckets of flowers, rolls of wrapping paper, and trays of mismatched pottery. On one shelf sat rows of glass jars filled with golden preserves. The air smelled of sugar, lemon, and stems.
She went to a small sink, turning on the tap. Eli hovered in the doorway, feeling too large for the space. He watched her rinse the wound, her movements efficient. The thorn came free. She reached for a first-aid kit on a shelf.
“Let me,” he heard himself say.
Hadley paused, the kit in her hand. She looked at him, her head tilted. “You know how to use a bandage?”
“I’ve taped my own ankles for a decade.” He stepped forward, taking the small plastic box from her. Their fingers brushed. Her skin was cool from the water.
She leaned back against the sink, extending her hand, palm up. A silent surrender. Her trust was a quiet, terrifying thing.
He worked carefully, his own large, clumsy-looking hands suddenly precise. He dabbed iodine on the tiny puncture, the sharp medicinal smell cutting through the sweetness of the room. She didn’t flinch. He unpeeled a small adhesive bandage, smoothed it over the pad of her finger. His thumb lingered for a heartbeat on the inside of her wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse. It matched his own.
“There,” he said, his voice low.
“Thanks.” She didn’t pull her hand away immediately. She looked at his work, then up at him. “You’re good at that.”
“Necessity.” He finally let go, closing the first-aid kit with a click. The space between them hummed. He gestured to the jars on the shelf. “You make these?”
“Yeah. When the shop is slow. Which is often.” She picked up a jar, holding it to the light. The honeyed contents glowed. “Rosehip and vanilla. It’s a slow process. Simmering. Straining. Waiting for it to set.” She put it back, her tone shifting, becoming lighter, deliberate. “The violets looked good in that jar. Better than cellophane.”
“They’re in my car.”
“You didn’t leave them in the locker room?”
“No.”
A simple confirmation. It meant everything. He’d taken them home. Or he would.
She nodded, wiping her hands on a towel. “Good. Gardenias are fussy. They don’t like drafts.” She moved past him, back into the main shop, breaking the intensity of the backroom. He followed, the beads clattering softly behind him.
She busied herself behind the counter, straightening already-straight pens. “So. Was there something you needed? Or was this a medical emergency house call?”
He braced his hands on the counter, the old wood smooth under his palms. “I came to say thanks. For the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled, but it was a little guarded now, the moment in the back receding. “It’s just a bouquet, Eli.”
He’d never heard her use his first name before. It sounded different in her voice. Not shortened. Whole.
“It wasn’t just a bouquet.” He forced the words out, each one feeling dangerous. “And you know it.”
The guarded look softened. She met his eyes. “I know.”
Silence stretched, comfortable but charged. The sun had moved, painting a long golden rectangle across the floorboards.
“The guys gave you a hard time,” she stated.
“They’re idiots.”
“They’re your friends.”
He didn’t contradict her. It was close enough to true. “They asked about Barnaby.”
At that, her face lit up, a real, uncomplicated joy. “He’s been lurking by the door to the alley every evening. I think he’s waiting for you. For more shelf-building, maybe.”
“I could come by. Sunday. If you’re closed.” The offer hung in the air. It was a line, and he’d crossed it.
Hadley studied him, her blue eyes scanning his face as if reading a complex text. She saw the loneliness he tried to bury. She saw the gentle heart he guarded like a fort. And she saw the man who’d just asked, in his own awkward way, for permission to see her outside of a transaction.
“Sunday’s good,” she said finally, her voice quiet. “I’m here. Doing inventory. It’s boring.”
“I don’t mind boring.”
“I’ll make coffee. And I’ve got a jar of peach and ginger preserves that needs testing.”
He nodded, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading in his chest. It felt like hope, a sensation so foreign it was almost alarming. “Okay.”
He pushed off from the counter. There was nothing else to say, and yet there was everything. He turned to leave.
“Eli?”
He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle.
“Take the gardenia out of the jar when you get home. Put it in a shallow dish of water by your bedside. The scent… it’s better at night.”
He didn’t ask how she knew he slept alone, in a room that probably felt too quiet. She just knew. He gave her one last nod, the bell jangling again as he stepped out into the late afternoon, the scent of her shop clinging to his clothes, the promise of Sunday a fixed point in the empty week ahead.