Her gratitude landed right in the center of my chest like someone had lit a candle.
“You’re welcome,” I managed.
She glanced around the empty shell again, and for the first time since she’d walked into the station, there was something other than shock and numbness in her expression.
I saw the glimmer of a woman starting to make plans again.
“We’re going to need a layout,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “And a list of essentials. And probably three different budgets—bare minimum, reasonable, and wild fantasy. And I need to talk to my staff. And vendors. And?—”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “There she is.”
She shot me a look. “Don’t get smug. This doesn’t mean I suddenly like you.”
“I know. But you’re talking about the future. I’ll take it.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Come back tomorrow,” I said. “Bring your notebooks. We’ll go over what you want where. I’ll wrangle the guys for a work schedule.”
She hesitated. “You’re sure Cartwright is okay with this?”
“He’s thrilled there’s something going on in here besides his grandsons sneaking beer. You’re doing him a favor. Gives him something to supervise.”
That got me an actual, if tiny, huff of amusement. It warmed me from the inside out.
“All right,” she said softly. “Tomorrow.”
As we stepped back out of the truck and into the barn’s cool air, she paused beside me, one hand resting lightly on the frame.
“Powell?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“If this is some kind of elaborate setup so you can say ‘I told you so’ about the door latch,” she said, “I will run you over with this thing when it’s done.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. I grinned. “Noted.”
She huffed again, shook her head, and headed for her car.
I watched her go, metal glinting in the afternoon light behind us, a hollow shell waiting to be filled.
For the first time since we’d dragged Pour Decisions out here in the dark, I didn’t just see what had been lost.
I saw what might be.
And the fact that she’d trusted me—even a little—to help get her there?
That seemed like the first real win I’d had with Jess Donnegan in ten damn years.
TEN
JESS
By the time I turned down Cartwright’s gravel drive, I’d given myself three different speeches.
This is about the truck.
This is about the business.
