I nod slowly, feeling something shift inside me. “And maybe I could set some boundaries with clients about when emergencies are actually emergencies.”
“Yes. I wonder if over the years you’ve allowed other people to define what eats into your personal time. Perhaps it’s time foryou to reevaluate. And we can figure out ways for me to be supportive when the actual emergencies happen.”
“Like how?”
I can see him warming to this idea, his eyes lighting up as he thinks through the possibilities.
“Like maybe I could bring you dinner at the office when you’re working late. Or maybe we have a code word for when you need to take a work call during personal time, so I know it’s not about avoiding me.”
“You’d really do that?”
His hand reaches over and takes the one I have resting on the table. I don’t pull it away. “Sweetheart, I’d do a lot more than that if it meant building something real with you.”
The endearment slips out so naturally that I don’t think he even realizes he said it, but it makes my cheeks warm and something flutter in my chest.
We sit in a silence that feels comfortable, not empty, the restaurant alive with clinking glasses and low laughter. His rough, work-worn hand rests over mine, heat seeping into my skin, and it hits me—this is whatpossiblefeels like. Someone who wants to build with me, not strip pieces away. Maybe this is the start of something real.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For seeing me. All of me. The workaholic lawyer and the woman who wants something more. For not asking me to choose.”
His smile is tender. “Thank you for letting me in.”
The candlelight flickers between us, and I can see the hope in his amber eyes. Hope that we can make this work. Hope that building something together is possible, even when the foundation feels uncertain.
“Ready to head to the workshop?” he asks. “I promise the woodworking portion of tonight will be much less emotional.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, surprising me with how light I feel after such a heavy conversation. “I don’t know. You might cry when you see how bad I am with power tools.”
“Hand tools,” he corrects with a grin. “I value my fingers too much to let you near anything electric on the first lesson.”
“Smart orc.”
As we stand to leave, he helps me with my coat, his hands lingering just a moment at my shoulders. The gesture is old-fashioned and sweet, and it makes me feel cared for in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Walking to his truck, our hands find each other naturally, fingers threading together like they belong that way. The Zone’s streetsare quieter now, the evening settling into night, and I realize I’m not scared anymore.
Not of this. Not of him. Not of the possibility that both could be mine—the work I’ve built my life around and the connection I never dared to hope for.
He opens the passenger door for me with that old-fashioned courtesy that makes my stomach flutter. “Ready for the grand tour?” he asks.
“I’ve been curious about this workshop since you first mentioned it,” I admit, settling into the passenger seat. The drive through the Zone is short, just a few blocks to his building. As we walk from the truck to the entrance, I’m still taking in this community he’s shown me tonight—the murals, the families, the sense of something built together against impossible odds.
Chapter Seventeen
Jordan
Forge leads me through a back entrance and down a corridor that smells of sawdust and machine oil. The basement hallway is lined with storage units, most secured with simple padlocks, but when Forge stops at unit 3B and produces a ring of keys, I can see this is something different.
“I converted this about three years ago,” he explains, unlocking the heavy door. “Figured the neighbors wouldn’t appreciate a table saw running at two AM when I can’t sleep. So I do finish work in the spare bedroom, but this is where it goes from raw material to something functional.”
When the lights flick on, my breath catches.
It’s not just a workshop—it’s a cathedral of wood. Tools hang in perfect order from pegboards that cover every wall. Stacks of lumber are arranged by type and size like a library, each piece labeled and stored with obvious care. Half-finished projects occupy the workbenches: a rocking chair with intricate carved details, an ornate mirror frame that looks like something from a fairy tale, and a dining table that could seat eight.
“Forge,” I whisper, turning in a slow circle. “This is incredible.”
