Wes stepped back fast, nearly stumbling, pulling his phone from his pocket with shaking hands. “Shit. I need to—Henry’s meds.”
“Of course.” Jake’s voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat, taking his own step back, putting a safe distance between them. “I should go anyway. Let you think about everything.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
They walked back to Jake’s car in silence, the December air biting after the warmth of the workshop. The space between them felt electric, charged, like one wrong word would ignite something neither of them was ready for—or maybe something they were both afraid of how badly they wanted.
Jake opened his car door, paused with one hand on the frame, looking back at Wes over the roof. “Friday? We could meet again. Go over any questions and finalize things if you’re ready to move forward.”
“Friday works.”
“Good.” Jake climbed in, started the engine. It purred to life, smooth and expensive and so different from Wes’s truck that coughed like a lifetime smoker. He lowered the window, and cold air rushed in. “Think about it, Wes. Really think about it. Not just the farm restructuring. All of it.”
He drove away, taillights disappearing down the driveway, leaving a wake of dust that settled slowly in the still air.
Wes stood there in the cold, heart still racing, skin still warm from the ghost of Jake’s touch, from the memory of standing close enough to feel the heat radiating between them.
He went back to the workshop and picked up the Santa Jake had touched. His fingers traced the same path Jake’s had—the beard, the eyes, the buttons—like he could absorb the memory through his skin.
Think about it. All of it.
The words echoed in his head, carrying weight that had nothing to do with loan restructuring or payment plans or five-year business strategies.
Wes set the carving down carefully and leaned against the workbench, letting his head fall back, eyes closed.
He was thinking about it.
He was thinking about almost nothing else.
And that terrified him more than any foreclosure notice ever could.
Five
Wednesday morning.
The Divine Dough smelled like heaven—yeast and sugar and something cinnamon that made Wes’s mouth water the second he walked through the door.
It was early, just past nine, and the morning rush had tapered off. A few locals sat scattered at small tables, nursing coffee and pastries. Brody was behind the counter, arranging a fresh tray of croissants in the display case.
He looked up when the bell chimed. “Wes! Don’t usually see you in here this time of year. Thought you’d be chained to that farm till New Year’s.”
“I’m meeting someone,” Wes said.
“Pedro’s in the back corner.” Brody pointed. “Got him set up with coffee and a bear claw. You want the same?”
“Make it a cinnamon roll.”
“You got it.”
Wes made his way to the back, weaving between tables. Pedro was at a corner booth, laptop open, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked up when Wes approached, offering a warm smile.
“Wes, good to see you.”
“You too.” Wes slid into the booth across from him. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Of course. Barb said you wanted to talk shop.”
Brody appeared with a mug of black coffee and a cinnamon roll. He set them in front of Wes with a gentle pat on the back. “Holler if you need anything else.”
