“No,” I said.
He blinked. “No?”
I closed my eyes. “Sorry. Yes. I meant yes. I absolutely—yes. What’s happening? What do you need? How can I help? Please ignore everything I just said.”
He stared at me for a very long second.
Then—God help me—he smiled.
Barely.
A ghost of one.
But enough to steal the air from my lungs.
“Something wrong with your door,” he said. “Saw it sticking earlier. Figured I’d take a look.”
“Oh.” I swallowed. “It does stick sometimes.”
He lifted the toolbox slightly. “I can fix it.”
“Right,” I whispered. “Yes. Good. Fixing is good.”
I opened the door wider. He stepped inside, bringing the scent of sawdust, cedar, and mountain air.
The Magnolia Ladies scattered like gossiping pigeons, pretending to browse but absolutely listening.
Wolf crouched at the base of the doorframe. “You don’t have to hover,” he said without looking up.
“I wasn’t hovering.”
“You’re hovering.”
I folded my arms. “You’re in the children’s section. Please watch for puppets. They’re fragile and judgmental.”
He glanced up at me, eyes warm. “I’ll be careful.”
I tried not to melt.
He tested the hinge, tightened screws, and checked alignment. Every quiet movement was deliberate. Focused. Capable.
When he stood, his shoulders nearly brushed mine.
“The frame was loose,” he said. “Should be smooth now.”
I reached for the door, tested it, and—
It swung perfectly.
Effortless.
“Wow,” I breathed. “You really fixed it.”
He looked down at me, expression unreadable. “Told you I would.”
My heart knocked against my ribs.
Then he stepped back, cleared his throat, and handed me a small card.
