“So help me, Chloe,” I say, dimly aware of how gruff I sound, “I don’t have time to knock on every door in downtown Storywood Ridge.”
She doesn’t owe me an answer, but that doesn’t mean she should deal with a huge problem alone. She carries enough as it is. I don’t have to see her day to day to know that, because I know Chloe.
And looking back, I know how much my mother carried our entire household. The difference is, she had Dad. Chloe is carrying the world alone.
“Fine.” She grits the word out. “I’m in the row of old buildings behind Main?—”
“Got it. On my way.”
I stalk down the sanded sidewalk toward the area where her studio is. My irritation battles with worry as I close the distance, my hands shoved in my coat pockets. She’s clearly the same woman she was a decade ago, stubborn as can be.
With hardly a glance in either direction, I cross to the next block and follow my instinct. A few storefronts down, I see the words painted across the picture window: Chloe Brooks Photography.
Bingo.
“Chloe?” I call, sharper than I mean to.
Every light in the place is on, and her things are tossed on a table right inside the door, the contents of her bags spilling out everywhere. A thin layer of water covers the floors.
It’s a complete disaster.
Her voice comes from across the space. “Back here!”
I peel off my coat and toss it on a sofa covered in Christmas pillows as I pass by it, then roll up my sleeves as I grow closer to the sound of water.
When I round the corner, she’s setting down a giant bucket filled to the brim with water. She shoots me a look as she darts back into the small bathroom to shove another under the waterfall spilling out of her sink.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” she asks through gritted teeth.
“I’ve got this,” I say, shouldering my way past her. “Go make sure everything on this floor is unplugged.”
She moves out of my way, but her defenses are like tiny daggers as she watches me search for the main water shutoff beneath the sink.
“You don’t think I already did that?” she snaps.
I straighten and huff out a breath. “You want to do this after I get this water turned off? I don’t imagine you want to get electrocuted today.”
Those pine green eyes flash, and she splashes away from me, not without a slight limp. Iknewshe hurt her ankle yesterday.
My point stands: still stubborn as ever.
I crouch back down and attempt to turn the old water valve, but it’s stuck. Glancing over to check on her progress, I stifle a laugh as she maneuvers giant light stands, her mouth moving. It’s probably a good thing I can’t hear her over the water.
“Got a wrench?” I ask as soon as she gets close enough to hear me again.
“Behind you!” she yells, exhaustion overtaking the frustration on her features.
I spot and grab the wrench, use it to leverage myself, and push the lever the extra step it needs to close.
“I think the valve’s ancient.” The studio becomes eerily quiet as the sound of rushing water stops. “Fixed,” I say quietly.
The muscle in her jaw jumps as we stand in the silence.
“It just needed some extra help, Chloe. You did great.” I flip the wrench in my hand and hold it in her direction, the handle pointed where she can easily retrieve it.
“Thanks,” she whispers, after another long stretch of quiet.
