TWELVE
JESS
By the time I pulled up to the barn, my stomach had performed some kind of Olympic-level gymnastics routine. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. I was a grown woman, not a teenager showing up for a crush’s study session.
“Professional,” I muttered as I climbed out of the car. “Work. Planning. Do not overthink this.”
The barn doors were cracked open. I heard movement inside—tool clinks, footsteps, and… whistling? Of course he whistled. Powell Ferguson probably woke up whistling. How anyone was that obnoxiously cheerful in the morning without a vat of coffee, I had no idea.
I squared my shoulders and stepped inside.
Powell looked up from a half-assembled cabinet. “Morning, Donnegan.”
He wiped his hands on his jeans and crossed to the workbench. He picked something up and held it like an offering. A Yeti mug. “Brought you coffee.”
I stared at it like it might explode. “You brought me coffee.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”
“That’s a bold move.”
“Why?”
I took the mug but didn’t drink yet, letting my suspicion show. “Because you are bringing a barista coffee. It’s like bringing a chef a frozen dinner.”
He flashed a maddeningly confident grin. “Try it.”
I braced myself and took a sip.
Paused. Took another.
It wasn’t Pour Decisions level—but it was good. Surprisingly good.
I lowered the mug. “Okay. I’ll admit it. This is not mud.”
“It’s the beans you gave Moose at Thanksgiving. He polished off the whole bag, so I bought some for the station.”
I blinked. “Huckleberry Creek Fire Department voluntarily spent money on quality coffee? Are you all feverish? Should I check pulses?”
“Keep talking, and I’ll switch you back to the sludge.”
A laugh escaped before I managed to smother it. “I thought all y’all drank was sludge. That’s why you come to the truck.”
“That and the view,” he said.
What he meant by that casual statement hit me three seconds later. Not the scenery. Not the town square.
The view.
Me.
Heat shot straight up my neck. I almost inhaled the coffee. “Right. Great. Moving on.”
He pretended not to notice my fluster, which somehow made it worse. “Ready to get into the Twelve Stops list?”
“Please.” I walked toward the truck, telling myself the flutter in my stomach was hunger. Or caffeine. Or stress. Definitely not the way he kept watching me like I was more interesting than power tools.
Up inside the truck, everything seemed different from last time—still rough, still smelling of sawdust and insulation, buttaking shape. Becoming something again instead of a wreck. I could see where they’d assembled the skeleton of the new layout.
