Jake gathered his bag, headed for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.
“Wes?”
“Yeah?”
“No regrets. Not about this.”
Then, he was gone.
Wes stood in the workshop, surrounded by his sculptures and the ghost of Jake’s cologne. He looked at the carving in the corner, waiting to be finished.
His phone buzzed.
Miguel:A customer wants to talk to you about delivery.
Back to reality.
But tonight, Jake would call.
They’d figure it out.
They had to.
Eight
Saturday morning arrived with the kind of crisp December air that made Jake’s Atlanta upbringing feel deficient. He’d grown up with the hustle and bustle of city life—concrete, high-rises, traffic, exhaust fumes—nature had always been something you sought out in parks, not something that surrounded you. But here in Spoon, stepping out of the Hawthorne House into the brittle cold, he could smell wood smoke and pine and something spice-like he couldn’t name. Cloves?
His phone buzzed before he’d even reached his rental car.
Wes:Busiest day of the season. Wish me luck.
Jake smiled, typing back:You’ve got this. Call me tonight?
The response was immediate.Count on it.
He sat in the car for a moment, engine warming, watching his breath fog the windshield. Two days ago, he’d been in Wes’s workshop, pressed against a workbench with sawdust clinging to his slacks and Wes’s calloused hands all over him. He’d driven back to the Hawthorne House in a euphoric daze, showered, and spent the evening fielding texts from Wes that ranged from nervous(Did we just fuck up?)to sweet(Can’t stop thinking about your fingers)to funny(Henry’s asking why I keep smiling at my phone).
Jake had assured him that the restructuring was signed and filed before they’d touched each other. Technically and professionally, they were in the clear.
Emotionally, though? That was uncharted territory.
He pulled out of the Hawthorne House’s gravel drive and headed toward the peach orchard on the outskirts of town. Diane Crawford had been his easiest client so far—a widow in her early sixties who’d inherited the orchard from her late husband and was drowning in both debt and grief. Her December appointment was mostly a formality. They’d already restructured her loan back in October, and Jake was just checking in again to see how the winter preparations were going.
Plus, he enjoyed visiting her.
The orchard sat about twenty minutes outside Spoon, down a county road that wound through farmland and forest. Most of the trees were bare now, skeletal branches reaching toward a pale sky. Jake pulled up to a modest farmhouse with peeling white paint and a sagging porch.
Diane met him at the door, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Mr. Marley. Twice in one week? And a Saturday, no less. Am I in trouble?”
“Not at all… and I told you to call me Jake.”
She ushered him inside to a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon and apples. A pie cooled on the counter, steam still rising from the lattice crust. “Coffee?”
“That’d be great, thank you.”
They sat at her kitchen table—smaller than Wes’s, more worn—and reviewed her financials. Everything looked solid. She’d followed his recommendations to the letter. She’d increased her income by selling preserves and baked goods year-round, had rented out her barn and pasture to alovelyfamily with show horses, and had plans for her own fruit stand in Spoon’s weekly farmer’s market the following summer. But most importantly,she’d hired a young farmhand to help her manage things, and was considering a second.
“You’ve done incredible work,” Jake said, genuinely impressed. “Your revenue’s up fifteen percent from last quarter.”
