“Yeah,” he says softly, “I do. Because I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
That lands like a punch to the ribs.
I straighten, wiping my hands on my pants. “We need to finish rewiring this so I can call the inspector to come check it out.”
Rhett claps me on the shoulder. “Fine. Be a coward. Just hurry up, because the sooner we fix this place, the sooner you can go pretend you’re not in love with her at the community center.”
I shoot him a warning look.
He lifts both hands. “Hey, I gave my professional opinion. Now I’ll stick to hardware and broken baseboards.”
But he’s smiling. And annoyingly smug.
I shake my head, turn back to the wiring, and try—unsuccessfully—not to think about Emmy in the borrowed kitchen across town.
Because Rhett wasn’t wrong about one thing:
Loving Emmy isn’t something I’d ever gamble with.
It’s something I’m protecting.
Even if she never knows it.
“You still want to check out the rest of the wiring in this place?” Rhett asks.
“Just what’s back here. The wiring in the front store was all updated and inspected before they moved in.”
Rhett raises a brow. “Oh, really? And how do you know that?”
“Looked up the permits and the inspection report,” I reply, nonchalantly.
He shakes his head and moves a piece of bakery equipment out of the way to get to more wiring. “You’re in deep, bro.”
“Just shut up and focus. I don’t want the cafe to be shut down longer than it needs to be.”
It takes three long and grueling days to make sure all the wiring in the back of the cafe is up to code with Rhett’s help.
By the time I get to the community center late in the day on day three, I can hear the faint clatter of baking pans even through the heavy double doors. Emmy always hums when she’s stressed, and sure enough, I pick up the soft off-key tune before I see her.
I push the doors open and there she is.
In the borrowed industrial kitchen, sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed pink from the ovens, blonde hair in a messy bunthat’s losing battles on all sides. The sunshine of this town. And she doesn’t even know it.
Evie is leaning against a prep table, scrolling her phone and occasionally offering loud, chaotic commentary on whatever Emmy is doing.
Emmy whirls when she hears the door. “Hayes! You shouldn’t be doing repairs and checking on me. You should be—sleeping. Or eating. Or literally anything else.”
Evie mutters, “Looks like he’s planning on eating.” She points at the paper bag in my hand. “Please tell me that’s food.”
“It’s food,” I say, handing it off.
She snatches it greedily, opens it, and beams. “Bless you, fireman.”
I lift a brow. “Uhm. You’re welcome?”
“Yeah, yeah,,” she says, waving me off. Then, with zero shame, she adds, “Also, I need to leave.”
Emmy straightens. “Already? Evie, we’ve barely started.Andit’s extremely rude to grab Hayes’s food and leave.”
