“Still accurate.”
I risk a glance despite myself.
She’s studying me now, head tilted slightly, like she’s sketching me in her mind. Assessing. Curious. Not afraid. That’s the second warning sign.
“You’re Boone,” she says.
I stiffen. “You ask someone?”
“Captain Cole, he did my house inspection,” she says easily. “He warned me you were grumpy.”
“He would.”
She steps farther in, boots crunching on grit. I don’t like how close she’s getting. Don’t like how my body reacts—alert, coiled, aware.
She stops by the workbench and peers at the engine. “You fix things.”
“I break them,” I say. “Then fix them.”
“Sounds therapeutic.”
“Sounds like none of your business.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine, sharp but amused. “You always this welcoming, or am I special?”
“You’re blocking my light.”
She looks up at the open door, then back at me, lips twitching. “You should try it sometime. Sunshine’s good for the soul.”
I snort. “I’ll take my chances.”
She studies my face again. The scar at my temple. The way my left arm doesn’t quite move like my right. Her eyes don’t linger out of pity—just awareness. It makes my shoulders tense.
“Well,” she says, clapping her hands together and smearing more paint. “I’ll get out of your hair. I just needed to ask—do you have a wrench I could borrow? The old sink next door is held together with spite and rust.”
I don’t answer right away.
Borrowing leads to conversations. Conversations lead to expectations.
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
“No.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Then she laughs again, softer this time. “Okay. That’s fair.”
It shouldn’t feel like a victory that she doesn’t argue. It shouldn’t bother me that she accepts it so easily.
She turns toward the door, then pauses. “You sure you don’t want to come see the studio sometime? I’m teaching kids’ art classes. It’s… loud.”
“I noticed.”
“But fun,” she adds. “Messy. Healing.”
I don’t miss the way her voice dips on the last word.
“Not my scene.”
