“Okay,” Christina said finally. “Colton’s place. But Marco?—”
“I know.” He reached out, brushed his fingers against her hand. Just briefly, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “Day by day.”
The Blueberry Inn smelled like sawdust and fresh-cut pine.
Marco held a level against a piece of trim while Will Dixon marked measurements in pencil. The older man worked with an economy of motion that Marco envied—no wasted effort, no second-guessing. Just decades of experience translated into confident hands.
“Little to the left,” Will said. “There. Hold it.”
Marco held. His shoulders ached from an hour of this work, muscles he didn’t know he had protesting the unfamiliar strain. At home—at any of his homes—he had people for this. Contractors, decorators, staff who handled the physical labor while he signed checks and approved designs.
Here, he was just another pair of hands.
“You’re doing well.” Will stepped back, examining the trim. “Lots of guys your age don’t know which end of a hammer to hold.”
“I had a summer job in college. Construction crew in the Hamptons.” Marco adjusted his grip on the level. “My father thought manual labor would teach me humility.”
“Did it?”
“It taught me that I prefer air conditioning.”
Will laughed, a warm sound that filled the half-finished room. Through the window, Marco could see the lake, its surface rippled by the afternoon breeze. Leaves spiraled down from the trees along the shore, gold and red against the gray water.
“Tara says you’re staying at Colton’s.”
Marco’s hands tightened on the level. “News travels fast.”
“Small town.” Will pulled a nail from between his lips, positioned it against the trim. “Christina told her this morning. Tara told me. That’s how it works around here.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Just information.” Will drove the nail home with three precise strokes. “People here look out for each other. That includes looking out for Christina and that baby.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Will set down his hammer, met Marco’s eyes directly. “Because the way I see it, you’ve got two choices. You can be part of this community—really part of it, not just passing through—or you can be the outsider who broke Christina’s heart. There’s no middle ground.”
Marco thought about the shortcuts he’d taken his entire life—money smoothing every rough edge, connections opening every door, the Castellano name parting crowds. None of that worked here. None of that mattered to people who measured worth in a different currency.
“I want to be part of it,” he said. “I just don’t know how.”
Will picked up another nail. “You’re holding that level pretty steady. That’s a start.”
The dog was faster than Marco expected.
Angus—a brown mutt of indeterminate breed—shot down the lakeside path like he’d been launched from a cannon, his leash nearly yanking Marco off his feet. Beside him, Ryan laughed and broke into a jog to keep up.
“He does that when he smells squirrels,” Ryan said. “Just plant your feet and hold on.”
Marco planted his feet. His Italian leather boots—the second pair he’d ruined since he’d been here—sank into the soft earth of the path. Guess it was time to get some hiking boots after all.
“Here, give me the leash.” Ryan took it smoothly, shortening his grip, and Angus’s mad dash became a manageable trot. “You have to show him who’s in charge.”
“And who is in charge?”
“Angus.” Ryan grinned. “Always Angus. But we let him think otherwise.”
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the path winding along the lake’s edge. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the water. Somewhere nearby, a bird called—a sound Marco couldn’t identify, though Ryan probably could.
