I toss back the covers, stretch until my shoulder protests, and mutter to the ceiling, “Guess we’re back.”
The ceiling, being a professional at ignoring my drama, offers no comment.
By eight, I’m down on the far end of Otter Creek Farm with Rowan. He’s on the tractor. I’m supposed to be helping, but end up leaning against the fence, coffee in hand, pretending deep thought instead of actual work.
“Marcus said I’m cleared,” I tell him.
He whistles low. “Hell of a thing. Thought you’d be happier.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s complicated.”
He cuts the engine, wipes his forehead, and gives me that brotherly look that meansdon’t make me drag it out of you. “Complicated like you don’t wanna go back?”
“Complicated like I don’t know what going back means anymore.”
Rowan squints. “Ah. Complicated like a woman.”
I laugh. “You’ve been talking to Ivy.”
“Maybe. She says your brain’s about as steady as wet paint.”
“She’s not wrong.”
He grins. “Then stop watching it dry and do something.”
Doing something turns out to mean fixing the railing outside the bookstore. Again.
Bailey claims it’s the sea air. I suspect it’s fate’s way of giving me excuses to hover.
She’s already open when I get there, broom in hand, hair in a braid that makes concentration look better than any runway model ever could.
“You’re early,” she says.
“You say that like it’s a crime.”
“For you, it’s suspicious.”
“Fair.”
I hold up the new bracket. “Figured we’d give this corner a fighting chance.”
She eyes it. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just felt like fixing something that isn’t me for once.”
Her mouth twitches. “That’s dark.”
“Occupational hazard.”
We work in easy silence. Or maybe not easy—more like aware. Every brush of her shoulder feels like a sentence we’ll have to finish later.
When I stand to test the railing, she’s right beside me, closer than she probably meant to be. The scent of coffee and cinnamon clings to her. My hand brushes her hip when I reach for the drill, and her breath catches, small but sharp.
I should step back. I don’t.
