Page 27 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“Stop calling me Mr. Carter.” His voice is laced with a gruffness that does absolutely nothing good for my composure.

“We both know that wasn't the name you were using for me last night.”

My eyes go wide. Heat floods my cheeks. And before I can form so much as a syllable in response, he's out of the truck, leaving me absolutely gobsmacked.

Like the true caffeine junkie I am, I managed to sniff out the only coffee shop on the main street – Blessed Beans. At first glance, it looked like the tiniest shop on the entire stretch, its storefront barely half the size of its neighbours. But stepping inside was like walking into the bloody Tardis. The place stretched back considerably further than it should have been physically possible from the outside, defying all reasonable laws of architecture.

An iron spiral staircase next to the coffee counter curled up to an upper floor crammed with mismatched chairs and sofas that looked like they’d been collected from different car boot sales over the years. There was a warm, cosy glow from the fairy lights that hung from nearly every inch of the ceiling, as if someone had forgotten to take down the Christmas decorations and simply decided to make it a permanent feature. The coffee counter itself was crafted from black-painted reclaimed wood, its front displaying the shop’s name, The Daily Bean, in the most intricate hand-painted calligraphy I have seen. And at eye level, smartly placed, sat several glass display cabinets stuffed with baked goods that had me salivating on the spot.

Which is exactly why I'm now wandering down the main street, getting the lay of the land with an iced latte in one hand and an almond croissant in the other.

In theory, this should be peak happiness: caffeine, buttery pastry, and small-town charm. But no, of course bloody not. Because my traitorous brain has decided to hit replay on Wade's parting words over and over again.

And because my subconscious is a complete arsehole, it doubles down, rerunning last night’s events—X-rated edition. I’m halfway through demolishing my croissant, eyes glued to the pavement, when the typical “what ifs” start. What if he hadn’t run? What if he’d stepped further into the room, commanding me to spread wider so he could watch properly? And if was being honest with myself, I would’ve obeyed. Because I’m weak for a man who dominates the space he enters. Especially if that space is between my legs.

Brick after brick passes beneath my feet as my imagination runs feral. Him telling me to circle my aching clit while he promises to ruin me so thoroughly that no man could ever measure up. Ordering me to fuck myself with my fingers while he strokes his cock at the same steady pace. When I am dripping enough, he growls for me to add another finger, making me release a moan of pure pleasure.

Jesus. I know how wrong it would be. How it could jeopardise this entire opportunity when, so far, it is everything I ever searched for. A place where I feel content and happy. And then there’s my friendship with Colt, t-the sensitive boy who’s too kind and selfless for his own good but understands me on a level that I fear not even Iris could. Which is why these fantasies are staying locked inside my slutty mind, where they bloody belong.

But if Wade thinks he can make me feel guilty for yesterday when he was the one to enter my room, then he can think again. I’ll be letting loose on him if he even attempts to make another one of those gravel-voiced comments.

Determined to get him out of my brain—at least for the next hour—I decide to finally draw my attention back to the small town I’ve been excited to explore. But the moment I lift my head, I crash into someone, sending my ice-coffee airborne and knocking the contents of whatever box they were carrying all over the pavement.

“Shit. Oh my God, I am so sorry!”

I drop down immediately, scrambling to scoop up the bottles of white liquid. Plastic, thankfully. I don’t think I could deal with shattered glass on top of everything else today.

When I straighten, I brace myself to face the victim of my latest clumsy episode, expecting irritation. Instead, a girl is offering me a smile.

Her deep chestnut skin appears to be dusted with some sort of herbs, like she’s walked straight out of a garden. Her dark hair is braided intricately, thin ribbons of electric blue woven through it and catching the light when she moves. She holds herself with the easy confidence of someone entirely comfortable in their own skin.

“It’s fine,” she says easily. “Could’ve been worse. You didn’t break anything expensive, so we’re good.”

Relief crashes through me as she adjusts the box in her arms, directing it towards me. I place the rescued bottles back inside, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I swear I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced but amused.

I spot another large box in the car, and I hesitate for half a second before offering a hand. It’s the least I can do.

“That would be great, thank you…” she pauses.

“Maeve.”

“Naomi.”

I lift the box from the car—knees, not back, I can hear Colt's voice somewhere in my head—and we fall into step toward a sage-green shopfront with gold lettering pressed into the glass, Wildbrook Botanicals Apothecary.

A floral scent tackles my sense of smell as soon as the shop door swings open. I stop inside the threshold, genuinely stunned.

It looks like a witch's pantry, in the best possible way. Shelves lined with amber glass bottles, bunches of dried flowers and lavender hanging from the beams above, a small handwritten sign explaining the refill and reuse scheme. And curled in a wicker bed beside the till, a little black and ginger cat opens one eye to look at me. They decide I'm not interesting enough and go back to sleep.

I set the box down on the counter and turn slowly, taking it all in.

“This is unreal,” I say quietly.

“Aw, thanks.” Naomi is already unpacking, moving through the shop with a practiced ease. “Feel free to browse. I'd recommend the rose oil hand cream. It’s a bestseller!”

She holds out a small wicker basket. I take it and wander around, letting the shop pull me in. This shop has everything. Shampoo, creams, snacks—all handmade, all labelled in the same neat cursive handwriting.