I ease back just enough to look up at him. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For telling me.”
His eyes meet mine, and there’s something unspoken there. A trust he didn’t owe me but gave anyway. And it settles in my chest. It’s an ache, but not the bad kind. The kind that lets you know someone just gave you a piece of their truth.
I offer a little levity, nudging the mood gently. “Most of my work is commissioned,” I say with a nod of my head. “Want to see what I’m working on now, actually?”
“Lead the way,” he says, voice stripped of any lingering edge.
I turn, and his gaze trails after me like a touch I can almost feel.
The workshop is as much in disarray as I probably look. Dust floats lazily in the air, tools strewn across my work bench. Self-conscious, I tighten my hair tie, and adjust my smudged reading glasses still perched on top of my head.
If he notices my mess, he doesn’t seem to mind.
I lead him to the massive piece I’ve been pouring my heart into all week. A three-section antique armoire, early 1900s, with hand-carved floral detailing and cracked molding I’ve been painstakingly restoring with a scalpel and a prayer.
“It takes finesse,” I explain, gently brushing a finger over one of the scrolls. “Too much pressure and you destroy it. Too little and you don’t fix anything. You’ve got to repair it without erasing what makes it special.”
When I glance back, Hex is looking at me in that stunned way people do when something hits too close to home.
“That’s how it feels with you,” he says quietly. “Like something delicate. Something I don’t want to break by doing too much or not enough.”
I swallow, caught off guard by how hard those words land.
He closes the distance, the eye contact burning with intensity. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” he says, voice rough and tingling through my torso. “I owe you a birthday redo.”
I let out a dry laugh, my brow shooting up. “You mean the birthday where I found out my boyfriend’s killed people while simultaneously being blackmailed with photos of me givingveryenthusiastic head. Photos so graphic they’d probably get Ruin's End flagged by the county health department?”
His smirk is slow and shameless. “That one.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, Big Guy”—I pat his chest—“but thirty-nine-year-old women don’t exactly have wild expectations for birthdays, let aloneredos.”
His hands settle on my waist, guiding me toward him as though I’ve always belonged there.
“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs. “And did you call meyourboyfriend?”
My heart jumps. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that? I just assumed I’m the only chick he’s banging that he’s exclusively told about his side hustle.
He’s close now, closer than I should be letting him get when I still have voices in my head whispering,you’re being watched.
There were photos.
A threat.
But nothing’s come of it. No new messages. No new chaos. Maybe Hex really did take care of it.
What if he killed her?
I’m about to pull back—say something self-deprecating or joke about Ashley’s radio silence being the result of her murder—but then his lips brush mine, and my body decides for me: shut up.
I let the kiss happen.
But he picks up on my hesitation.
Instead of deepening it, he slows. Softens. His hand comes up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, kissing myforehead, and lingering just long enough to steal my breath again for an entirely different reason.
When he pulls back, his eyes flick up to my hairline. “You always wear these on your head?” he asks, tapping the pair of glasses still perched there.
I smirk. “There are lots of little intricacies, ailments, and failing parts you’ve yet to discover, Hex. I’m a full-time restoration project.”
