“He is.”
“Good. You could use a decent man like him to help you sort your business out. Take a load off.”
Wes didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. The words rang innocent enough one way, but downright dirty another. Sometimes his father seemed far more perceptive than he let on. He went to the kitchen, poured himself water he didn’t want, and tried not to pace.
At exactly two o’clock, Jake’s car pulled into the driveway.
Wes forced himself to wait, counted to five, then walked to the door and opened it before Jake could knock.
Jake stood on the porch, messenger bag over his shoulder, and wearing a baby blue Oxford that made his eyes sing. He looked good. Damn good.
He also looked nervous.
“Hey,” Jake said.
“Hey.” Wes stepped back. “Come in.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Jake pulled out his laptop, walked through the final paperwork—restructuring terms, payment schedules, and the timeline for filing. Wes signed where Jake pointed and initialed where needed.
But the whole time, there was the undercurrent of yesterday’s conversation at the Dairy Dream hanging between them.
Jake’s hands shook slightly as he organized the papers.
Wes’s voice cracked when he asked about the payment date.
They were both trying so hard to be normal that nothing felt normal at all.
“So that’s it,” Jake said finally, closing the folder. “I’ll file these on Monday. New terms take effect January first.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You’re officially restructured. Lower payments, more breathing room.”
Wes nodded. “Thank you. For all of it.”
“Just doing my job.”
“No. It’s more than that.” Wes met his eyes. “You know it is.”
“Wes—”
“You wanted to see what I’ve been working on?”
Jake blinked at the subject change. “Yeah. If you’re still willing to show me.”
Wes stood. “Come on.”
Jake followed Wes across the yard to the workshop, watching his breath puff in the cool December air. Wes unlocked the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob.
“I was out here late last night,” Wes said. “It’s a little messy.”
“I don’t mind mess.”
Inside, familiar scents greeted them–sawdust and wood shavings, pine resin and machine oil. Half-finished carvings lined the shelves—Santas, reindeer, eagles, bears…
But Wes walked past all of them to the back corner, where something large stood covered with a paint-stained tarp.
“I’ve been working on this,” Wes said, not quite meeting Jake’s eyes. “All last night. It’s not finished.”
