What? Cherished?
What did Lauren know about feeling cherished?
She pulled on her robe.
The living room was still a graveyard of Christmas—crumpled paper on the floor, empty wine glasses on the mantel.
Lauren sank onto the couch, curling her knees to her chest. The house felt hollow without his presence filling it. No coffee brewing, no shower running, no off-key humming.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.Hope you and Tom had a magical Christmas!
Eventually the screen dimmed back to black.
She pulled the blanket tighter, tucking her chin against her knees.
CHAPTER 11
Tom
Tom swungthe sledgehammer with more force than necessary, the impact jolting up his arms—a sharp, satisfying ache as concrete split and scattered across the site.
This was exactly what he needed. Mindless, physical work. Nothing but muscle and momentum. His T-shirt was soaked through despite the December chill, steam rising faintly from his shoulders. Every blow steadied him. Every crack drowned out the noise in his head.
He’d be back in his own bed tonight.
He’d go home. Lauren would apologize for her outburst, and everything would return to normal.
Simple.
His father had a crew who got paid to swing hammers while Tom handled concept drawings and layouts. But today, he needed something physical. Something that could drive the memories away.
The duffel bag was in the boot of his car, that god-awful quilt folded on the backseat.
He hefted the sledgehammer again. The muscles in his back coiled tight before he brought it down, the crack of breaking cement echoing in the cold air.
“Get out of my house.”
Another swing. Another fracture. This was what he was good at. Building things. Tearing down what didn't work and constructing something solid in its place.
He couldn’t stop thinking of Lauren crying.
“Easy there, college boy,” one of the crew called. “You trying to take down the whole building?”
Tom paused, catching his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove.
He’d slept like shit on Jake’s couch—neck kinked, back aching from cushions that swallowed him whole.
All this over what? Christmas presents? Christ.
He set down the sledgehammer and grabbed his water bottle. Around him, the site was alive—the thud of boots, the buzz of saws, the honest hum of work. The grown-up world.
Here, results mattered more than feelings. You built with concrete, not paper cutouts.
The queasy twist in his stomach was just exhaustion. Too little sleep, too much coffee. It had nothing to do with the memory of Lauren's face when she'd pressed that quilt into his arms.
He pushed the image away.
He would head home early, let Lauren apologize to him. It was time she understood that her craft obsession had to stop.
