"Okay. Not yet. But soon, Gem. You're going to have to let someone in eventually."
"I know." I don't know. I don't know if I'll ever be ready to say out loud the things that happened in that house. But agreeing beats arguing.
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The eggs really are good. I manage half the plate before my stomach starts to rebel, and I set down my fork.
"Listen." Cole clears his throat. "I know you said you're not sure what you want to do next. Job-wise, I mean. But if you want something to keep you busy, we could use help at the Ironside. Nothing major. Inventory, ordering, maybe some bookkeeping. Flexible hours. Decent pay."
"You don't have to give me a pity job."
"It's not pity." He meets my eyes. "We're shorthanded. Darla quit last month to go back to school, and none of us have time to deal with the paperwork. You'd be doing us a favor."
I want to say no. I want to crawl back upstairs and hide under the covers until the world makes sense again. But my small savings account won’t last long, and the thought of sitting alone in this house with my thoughts makes my skin crawl.
"Okay." The word surprises me as much as it surprises him. "I'll try it. See if it works."
Cole's smile is the first real one I've seen since I got here. "Good. Come by around four. I'll introduce you to the systems."
Four o'clock. Six hours to figure out how to act like a normal person.
The Ironside looks different in daylight. Less atmospheric, more practical. The exposed brick and reclaimed wood that seemed so inviting three nights ago now just look like a bar that's seen its share of years and could use a deep clean.
Cole gives me a tour of the back office, which is really just a closet with a desk and a computer that's at least five years out of date. The filing system appears to be a combination of overstuffed manila folders and good intentions. It's a mess, and for the first time in months, a mess feels like something I can actually handle.
"I'll let you get oriented." Cole checks his phone and frowns at a text. "I've got to run to the shop for a few hours. Will's out front if you need anything."
Will. My stomach twists at the name.
"I'm sure I'll be fine." I keep my voice light. "Go. I'll figure it out."
Cole hesitates like he wants to say something else, then reaches over slowly and squeezes my shoulder. I don't flinch this time. Small victories.
He leaves without another word, and I listen to his footsteps retreat through the bar, the front door opening and closing. Then I'm alone with a decade's worth of disorganized paperwork and the knowledge that Will Lawson is somewhere on the other side of that wall.
I work for an hour. Maybe two. The filing system reveals itself slowly, a logic emerging from chaos as I sort invoices by date and vendor. There's comfort in the sorting, the categorizing. Concrete tasks with concrete endings.
When I finally emerge from the office to refill my water glass, I find Will behind the bar, restocking the top shelf with a case of whiskey.
Tall, yes, but it's more than height—he's solid in a way that makes the space around him feel smaller. His arms are bare below the rolled sleeves of his henley, and I can see the tattoos that cover them from wrist to shoulder. Iron Brotherhood ink. Military service markers. Other designs I didn't take in before.
The last time I really looked at him—really let myself see him—was at Sarah's funeral. He'd stood at the graveside like a man carved from stone, holding himself together through sheer force of will while the rest of us fell apart around him. I'd wanted to reach for him, offer words that might actually help. But what do you say to a man burying his wife?
I'd touched his arm at the reception and told him Sarah was lucky to have been loved like that. He'd looked at me with eyes that didn't quite see me, nodded once, and turned away.
That was the last real conversation we had. Until three nights ago.
"Hey." He doesn't look up from what he's doing. "Finding everything okay back there?"
"It's a disaster." I fill my glass at the bar sink, grateful for the distraction. "But a manageable disaster. I've seen worse."
"Darla had a system. We just never figured out what it was." He sets the last bottle in place and finally turns to face me. "You settling in alright?"
The question is simple. His eyes are not. They're dark and steady, watching me with an attention that feels like being held. Not trapped. Just seen.
"I'm fine." The automatic response. The comfortable lie.
Will doesn't call me on it. Just nods and turns back to his work, and somehow that's worse than if he'd pushed. His acceptance makes me want to deserve it.
I'm about to retreat to the office when the front door opens and another man walks in. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of effortless good looks that probably cause trouble everywhere he goes. He's wearing the same style of leather vest as Will, the Iron Brotherhood patch visible on the back.
