My pulse flickers. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something more dangerous. “Depends who gets burned.”
We hold the look too long. The ladder creaks beneath me. He reaches out automatically, palm flattening against my hip to steady me. The contact is solid. Intentional. My breath stutters before I can stop it.
“Reckless,” he says quietly.
“Grumpy,” I counter, but the word lands soft, not sharp.
He doesn’t move his hand right away. His thumb presses once, slow. Testing.
Then he steps back like he’s caught himself touching fire.
I climb down before I embarrass us both. “I’ve got a new sofa and some canvases being delivered today. Thank you for helping me get this place in shape enough to have a dozen kids over for my first art class in the morning.”
“Happy to do it,” he replies swiftly.
We work in silence for ten minutes that feel like an hour. When he breaks it, his voice is different. Curious. Careful.
“What’s your favorite painting?”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I laugh, surprised. “That’s random.”
“So?”
I set my brush down, wipe my hands on my jeans. “You mean favorite I’ve done?”
“Unless you’re secretly hoarding a Picasso.”
“A watercolor,” I say. “Mountain cabin. Pine trees. Creek out back. I was nineteen when I painted it.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. Listening in a way that makes me want to tell the truth.
“I’ve sold prints,” I continue. “Lots of them. But I’ll never sell the original of that one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s home.” I swallow. “Copper Mountain. Summers with my mom. She taught me how to bleed color into water and let it decide where to go.”
His jaw tightens. “Your mom.”
“Breast cancer,” I say, steady. “A few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I moved back to the mountains after,” I add. “But Copper was too… full. Too many echoes. Devil’s Peak felt like a clean slate.”
“And your dad?” he asks.
I shrug. “City. New wife. Always been distant.”
He nods, slow. No judgment. Just understanding. His hand comes to my back, rubbing gently like he’s grounding me without asking permission.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
