Ben hasn’t moved from her side since we got back. He’s pressed against her shoulder like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he stops touching her. Every few seconds his eyes drift to her face, checking, making sure she’s still there. Still okay.
Elijah’s crouched in front of her, her hands cradled in his. He’s got a first aid kit open on the floor beside him, antiseptic and gauze spread out like a tiny triage unit. The guy builds furniture with those hands. I’ve seen him haul oak beams that would take two normal men to lift. He could crush walnuts without trying.
But right now he’s dabbing antiseptic on her scraped knuckles like she’s made of spun glass.
“This might sting,” he says, voice low.
Tessa watches him work, her expression unreadable. “It’s fine.”
“You tried to dig your car out with your bare hands.”
“I was motivated.”
“You were stubborn.” He doesn’t look up, just keeps cleaning the scrapes with careful, methodical strokes. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Motivation gets you out of a snowbank. Stubbornness gets you frostbite.”
I bite back a smile. Elijah with the unexpected sass. Tessa looks equally surprised.
“Did you just lecture me?”
“Stating facts.” He reaches for the gauze. “Hold still.”
She does. That’s the part that gets me. Tessa Lang, who argues with everyone about everything, just sits there and lets Elijah wrap her hands like she’s a child who skinned her knees on the playground. Her eyes follow his movements, watching him wind the gauze with practiced precision.
“Where did you learn to do this?” she asks.
“Woodworking.” He tucks the end of the gauze and reaches for her other hand. “You get cuts and splinters. You learn to patch yourself up.”
“Or you could wear gloves.”
“Could.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Don’t.”
His face has gone soft. Open. Completely unguarded in a way I’ve never seen from him before.
We’re all in trouble here. All three of us.
I head for the kitchen to give myself something to do besides stare at the three of them like a creep. Gramps always said idle hands make for obvious pining. The pot of leftover chili goes on the stove, and I busy myself stirring while I watch them through the pass-through window.
The Barn Bar taught me a lot of things. How to mix a perfect Old Fashioned. How to break up a fight without throwing a punch. How to listen when someone needs to talk and stay silent when they don’t.
But mostly it taught me that people are lonely. Even in a town like Honeyridge, where everyone knows everyone and you can’t walk down Main Street without stopping for three conversations, people are lonely. They come to my bar because they want connection. They want to feel seen.
I’ve always been good at that. Seeing people. Making them feel like they matter. It’s why I took over for Gramps without a second thought when his arthritis got too bad to keep working. Some people dread inheriting the family business. I couldn’t wait.
There’s a kind of sacredness in being the person people come to at the end of a hard day. The one they trust with their secrets, their fears, their stupid jokes. My grandfather built that trust over forty years. I’m trying to be worthy of it.
Tessa’s different, though. Tessa doesn’t want to be seen. She keeps herself so buttoned up, so controlled, that getting a glimpse of the real her feels like finding a twenty-dollar bill in an old coat pocket. Unexpected. Lucky.
Tonight I’ve seen more of the real Tessa than I have in three years of knowing her. And I want more. God, I want more.
The chili’s hot. I ladle out a big bowl—she needs it, even if she won’t admit it—and carry it over to the couch.
Elijah’s finished with her hands now, both of them neatly wrapped in white gauze. He’s packing up the first aid kit, but he hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor near her feet. Like he can’t bring himself to put distance between them.
Yeah. I know the feeling.
