“It’s not bravery,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s a clause in a will.”
Something in his expression softened, like he recognized the truth of that more than he should have. “Still brave,” he said quietly.
I let out a small breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “My grandmother owned this place. She ran it herself until she couldn’t anymore. When she died, she left it to me on the condition that I keep it for a year before I can sell.” I gave a half-shrug, glancing down at my plate. “One year. No exceptions. I think she was trying to teach me something.”
“About what?” he asked, his voice low, almost gentle.
“Roots,” I said, then winced at how hollow it sounded. “Patience, maybe. She built this place from nothing and held on even when it stopped making sense. She was stubborn like that.”
“She sounds like someone worth remembering.”
“She was.” I toyed with my fork, pushing a piece of shrimp through a smear of sauce. “But she was also someone who made everything hard on herself. On everyone, really. I think she believed struggle meant strength.”
He nodded slowly, like he understood that language fluently. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“You believe that, too?”
“I believe in order,” I said before I could stop myself. “Predictability. You can’t lose what you keep organized.”
He tilted his head, studying me in a way that made my chest feel too tight. “Sounds lonely.”
I looked down again, throat dry. “Sometimes it’s peaceful.”
A silence settled, not awkward—just full. He didn’t push, and I didn’t fill it. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the faint crash of waves through the old glass panes.
I gestured vaguely toward the window, desperate to move the conversation. “The inn’s a mess. Half the shutters are hanging by a thread, the porch railing’s about to collapse, and I’m pretty sure the roof leaks in at least three places. The plumbing hums like it’s alive, and the upstairs floor dips like it’s plotting my death.”
He smiled then, slow and small, like the sun catching the edge of something dangerous. “You planning to fix it yourself?”
“I’ll do what I can. Hire help where I have to.”
He leaned back slightly, the chair creaking under his weight. “Bet you could handle more than you think.”
Something in the way he said it made my pulse trip. I looked up—mistake. His eyes had gone a shade darker, that gray taking on a stormy edge.
I tried to speak, to deflect, but my voice betrayed me. “I … I don’t know. I’ve never fixed anything like this before. I live in a condo in Chicago.”
His gaze flicked to my hands, resting on the table, then back to my face. “You learn by doing.”
My heart gave a traitorous kick. “And you? You look like someone who knows how to fix things.”
His mouth curved, not a smile exactly—more like an acknowledgment of something dangerous between us. “Depends on the thing.”
The air thickened even more. I caught myself staring at his hands—broad, strong, veins tracing over tan skin. They looked capable of rebuilding walls, or breaking them down. Of steadying something fragile … or undoing it entirely.
My mind went where it shouldn’t. Heat crawled up my neck before I could stop it.
I pictured those hands—big, rough, and steady—wrapped around a hammer, braced against weathered wood as he repaired the porch rail. The image shifted before I could blink. The hammer was gone. The wood was me.
Those same hands, steady and certain, sliding down my hips, gripping, guiding. The same precision that could rebuild something broken turned toward ruin instead—mine. I imagined what his skin would feel like against mine, that calloused drag over the softest parts of me, the contrast so sharp it made me ache.
I wondered how a man like him touched when he wanted something—if he was patient or punishing. If he gave orders or took them. If that low voice would sound the same when it wasn’t speaking in full sentences, but just my name, rough and wrecked.
The thought hit like a pulse between my legs. I bit the inside of my cheek, willing the color in my face to fade, but it only burned hotter.
God, what was wrong with me? I’d known him for thirty minutes. I didn’t even know where he was from, what he wanted, or why he’d shown up at my door. And yet my body reacted like it recognized him—like it had been waiting for him.
