"How do you—"
"Rhett, he's been in the Thunder Bay Chronicle three times this month. Once for a hat trick, once for a fight, and once for teaching kids to knit at the community center."
"His real name is Connor."
"I know what his real name is. Cripes, Rhett. When you finally do something, you never do it halfway, do you?" The question stung a bit.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad. It's just—you spend five years being the most careful person in Ontario, and when you finally make a move, you pick the guy who probably hasn't had a quiet moment in his entire life."
She wasn't wrong. Hog was the opposite of everything I'd built my life around. Loud where I was quiet, chaotic where I was calm, spontaneous where I was deliberate. "He's not what I expected," I said.
"Good different or scary different?"
"Both." Sloane was quiet for a moment. In the background, I heard a coffeemaker gurgling. "Did you have fun?" she asked finally.
The question was so simple that it caught me off guard. Not was it smart, or what are you thinking, or any of the other questions I'd been asking myself. Just: Did you have fun?
"Yeah, I did."
"Then don't overthink it. You've been the responsible one for so long, Rhett. You took over the business when Dad got sick, but that doesn't mean you can't want something for yourself, too."
"What if he doesn't want—"
"What if he does?" she interrupted. "What if it works out the way you want it to?"
I opened my mouth to argue and list all the reasons why it was complicated, and Hog probably wasn't looking for someone like me. The words died in my throat when I thought about the weight of his hand in mine.
"I texted him."
"Good. What did you say?"
"Asked if he wanted coffee."
"Perfect. Simple, low pressure, gives him an out if he's not interested." Sloane paused. "Has he responded?"
I checked. Still nothing. "Not yet."
"It's been what, two minutes? Give the man time to wake up and process. He probably needs coffee before he can form coherent thoughts."
"What if—"
"Rhett." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You chose this. Whatever happens, you chose it. That's worth something."
She was right. It was worth something. I'd reached for what I wanted. That had to count for something, even if Hog never texted back.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
"Good. Now make yourself some actual breakfast instead of staring at your phone. And call me later—I want details about this knitting enforcer who managed to crack the Rhett Mason code."
The line went dead, leaving me alone with the sound of the radiator. I padded to the kitchen on bare feet, making coffee on autopilot, checking my phone between every step. Grounds, phone check. Water, phone check. The message showed as delivered, but that didn't mean he'd read it.
Maybe he was still asleep. It was barely nine on New Year's Day—reasonable people were probably still unconscious, recovering from whatever they'd done to celebrate the previous night. Sensible people weren't standing in their kitchens, obsessing over two-word text messages.
I pressed the plunger down on the French press, the grounds separating from the coffee with satisfying resistance. Poured myself a mug—the blue ceramic one I'd made in a pottery class Sloane had dragged me to three years ago. It was slightly lopsided, the handle too big for my hand, but I'd kept it because it reminded me that not everything had to be perfect to be useful.
I took my coffee to the window that overlooked Main Street. A few early risers were already out—Mrs. Tremblay from the corner house was walking her ancient terrier past the old grain elevators, and the Virtanen kid was trudging toward his shift at the Petro-Can, probably cursing the lake-effect snow.
