“You should change your shirt.”
Wes looked down. There was pine sap on his sleeve, and a smudge of dirt near the collar. “Why?”
“Because you look like you’ve been wrestling saplings all morning.”
“I have been wrestling saplings.”
“Still. First impressions matter, even the second time around.”
Wes sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. He headed upstairs, taking them two at a time.
In his room, he stood in front of the closet like he was facing down an enemy. Which was ridiculous. It was just a shirt.
He grabbed a clean flannel—navy blue, less obviously work-worn than the green plaid he’d been living in. Pulled it on, ran a hand through his hair. Considered shaving, then decided againstit. Jake had seen him with the beard. This was who he was—no point pretending otherwise.
His phone buzzed. It was Jake.
On my way. See you in 10.
Wes’s stomach executed a perfect flip.
Get it together.
He splashed water on his face, studying himself in the mirror. Dark circles under his eyes. Beard needed trimming. When was the last time he’d actually looked at himself instead of just going through the motions?
Stop stalling.
He headed back downstairs.
At exactly two o’clock, Jake’s rental car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching over gravel and the occasional pine cone.
Wes watched from the kitchen window as Jake climbed out—charcoal slacks today, crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows despite the December chill, leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked put-together in that effortless way some people managed. Professional. Confident. The kind of guy who had his shit figured out.
Wes suddenly felt like a fraud in his clean flannel.
The knock came—three sharp raps—and Wes forced himself to walk slowly to the door, to not look too eager or too anxious or too anything.
He opened it.
Jake was there, smiling, and the December sun caught in his dark hair. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Wes stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in.”
Jake crossed the threshold, and the kitchen felt smaller somehow, the ceiling lower, the walls closer. His cologne—something with cedarwood and maybe citrus—cut through the ever-present aroma of pine sap and coffee.
Wes gestured toward the table. “Coffee?”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
Wes busied himself with the pot—grateful for something to do with his hands, for a reason to turn away from Jake’s steady gaze. He heard Jake setting his bag on the table, the soft click of a laptop opening, and the rustle of papers.
“How’s your father?” Jake asked, his voice carrying that same genuine warmth Wes was starting to recognize.
“Good. He’s in the living room.” Wes poured two mugs and turned. “You want to meet him?”
Jake’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Wes set the mugs on the table and led Jake through to the living room, where Henry sat in his recliner, watching a cooking show on the TV. His father looked up as they entered, sharp eyes immediately assessing.
