This is not about Powell.
None of them did a damn thing to slow the thump of my pulse.
I pulled in beside his truck and killed the engine. “Okay, Jess. You walked through fire. You can walk into a barn.” I ignored the unhelpfully honest voice in my head pointing out that I’d actually collapsed in a fire and had to be hauled out like a sack of flour.
Cold nipped at my cheeks as I crossed to the barn doors. Music floated out—some kind of rock themed Christmas playlist.
Nudging open the doors, I stepped inside and stopped dead.
The last time I’d been here, the truck had looked like a crime scene. Empty, raw, every scorch mark a reminder of what I’d lost.
Now…
Now it looked like a project.
A fresh plywood subfloor had been laid in, along with a new frame for the service window. New conduit ran in clean lines along the walls. Little metal boxes framed out where outlets would go. A breaker panel was mounted in back, its neatly labeled circuits a promise that something would work again. There was a folding table set up with a toolbox and a mess of wire strippers and screwdrivers like some kind of hardware buffet.
And along the side wall, in tidy stacks and labeled boxes, was proof that my town had lost its damn mind.
Tile. Stainless steel sheets. Wood. Screws. And a whole host of other building supplies I didn’t immediately recognize. I hadn’t even tapped into the GoFundMe yet.
My throat went tight so fast it hurt.
“Morning.”
I jumped. Of course I did. I was apparently destined to always be startled by this man.
Powell stood beside the workbench, one hand braced on it like he’d just leaned back from some task. For once he wasn’t in Huckleberry Creek FD gear, instead having opted for a henley, worn jeans, and work boots. His forearms were smudged with dust, and there was a streak of something dark on his cheek, like he’d wiped his face with the back of his hand and missed a spot.
It should not have been attractive.
It was.
“I really am going to put a bell on you.” My voice came out thinner than I wanted. “A cowbell. String of jingle bells. Something.”
He gave a crooked half-smile. “You were zoning out again.”
“Hard not to.” I swept a hand toward the donation pile. “What is all this?”
He followed my gaze. “Donations. People want to help.”
I stared at the supplies like they might disappear if I blinked too hard. “People… actually did this.”
“People love your coffee,” he said simply. “And you.”
The last word slipped out, quiet, like he hadn’t meant to tack it on.
Heat pricked behind my eyes. Absolutely not. I was not going to cry.
I made a sound that might have been a laugh if you were very generous. “They love their caffeine.”
“It’s not just the caffeine.”
I didn’t trust myself to answer, so I took a breath that tasted like sawdust and cold air and forced my attention back to the truck.
“You’ve been busy,” I said.
“Had some help.” He shrugged, casual, but there was pride in the way he glanced at the fresh base wiring. “Meatball and I got almost all the rough-ins done last night. Today is your call. If you want something moved, we move it before we close the walls.”
