“Good,” he says softly. “I’m glad.”
He hesitates, then adds, “I couldn’t have done this without you. Or Will.”
“Sure you could have,” I say automatically but I’m the one who pauses this time. “Have you heard from Carl?”
“Not since I sent him packing.” His voice is careful, measured. “It’s for the best. Even my therapist agrees. But I still feel rotten about it.”
“That’s understandable,” I say gently. “He’s your dad. It’s complicated. But for the record?”
He looks up.
“You seem happier without him hovering.”
Liam nods once, slow and thoughtful. “I think I am.”
We finish up at Liam’s, and I head back into town. When I drive past Flowers End, I spot Will leaning against the front railing, cigar in hand.
I’m not usually one for smokers, but something about him holding it has always worked for me. Maybe it’s the way he rolls it between his fingers like it’s second nature. Or how the scent—rich and earthy—somehow smells like comfort and firewood instead of something bitter.
I lift a hand in a casual wave as I turn down the alley beside the bar, pulling into the small parking space behind Knot and Spur.
I’m barely out of my truck when I hear footsteps.
Will rounds the corner, still holding the cigar between two fingers. “You got a delivery while you were out. I signed for it.”
I blink. “I did?”
He nods toward the back door. “Big box. Looks like furniture.”
I check my phone and groan. “Crap. That was fast. I didn’t think it’d ship so soon. Sorry you had to deal with it.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t mind.” There’s a beat of silence and then he asks, “Need help getting it up?”
My heart stutters.
He means the stairs.
Obviously.
But my brain is deeply uncooperative.
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. “If you’re not busy.”
He smirks, just a little. “I’ve got a minute.”
And just like that, Will Flowers is following me up to my apartment with a box of furniture between us and a whole lot of unresolved tension neither of us is talking about. Yet.
The box is bigger than I expected, and awkward as hell to maneuver up the narrow back staircase. Will takes most of the weight without complaint, jaw tight, muscles flexed, and I have to force myself not to look.
Once we get it inside, he drops it in the middle of my living room with a grunt.
“This is a coffee table?” he asks, eyeing the box like it’s personally offended him.
“Supposedly. I guess I’ll find out once I build it.”
He takes a drag off the cigar, then stubs it out in the small dish I set on the windowsill when I moved in. I put it therebecause it reminded me of my dad, and how he used to put out his cigars. It makes me happy seeing someone else use it.
“Alright. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
