“Jamie.”
“At his place, I assume.” I sat back, aimed for casual. “We're not joined at the hip.”
Brandy studied me over the rim of her own mug. Mags appeared with coffee, set it down without comment, retreated.
“So…” Brandy began. She nudged my foot with hers. “How are things going with Prospect Ridge's favorite lovebirds?”
I wrapped my hands around the mug. The warmth couldn't touch the cold that had settled in my chest somewhere around two in the morning.
“Good,” I said with a nod. “We ran into his friend Reid at the Tavern last night. He mentioned the trivia league. Starts in March.”
Brandy's expression shifted. Understanding, or something close to it. She reached over and covered my hand with hers. “I remember asking you a couple days ago if it was still fake. And you couldn't answer me.” She tilted her head. “Has that changed?”
My throat tightened. “He said I'd have my Saturdays back soon. After Valentine's Day, that’s when it’s supposed to end. He acted like he was looking forward to it.”
“Did he say he was looking forward to it? Those exact words?”
“He said—” I stopped. Tried to remember exactly what Holden had said. “He said I wouldn't be roped into shop duty anymore. And I said he'd have his quiet back.”
“So you both said things that sounded like you wanted it to end.”
When she put it like that… “I was matching his energy.”
“And maybe he was matching yours.”
I stared at her. Under the table, Bubblegum pressed against my leg.
“Here's what I've learned selling houses for twenty years,” Brandy said. “People are terrible at saying what they want. They drop hints. They test the waters. They wait for the other person to go first.” She pointed a finger at me. “And then they're shocked when both people sit there waiting and nothing happens.”
“I can't be the one who asks for more. Not again.” The words came out rougher than I intended. “That's what I did with Landon. Pushed, wanted, asked, and all it got me was two years of feeling like I was too much.”
“Holden isn't Landon.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” Brandy leaned forward. “Because it sounds like you're treating him the same way. Expecting him to reject you before he's even had a chance to respond.”
Mags came by with menus. I ordered without looking, eggs, toast, whatever. The food arrived and I ate mechanically, barely tasting it, while Brandy filled the silence with talk about listings and resort gossip.
She was giving me space to process. I appreciated her sensible advice even as I resented needing it.
When we'd finished, she reached across the table and squeezed my hand again.
“That man is crazy about you,” she said. “I've seen it. The whole town has seen it. But he's also the most closed-off person in Prospect Ridge, and he's been that way since before you got here.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“If you want something to change, you might have to be the one to say it first.” She looked down at her phone and gathered her purse. “I've got to run, sweetie. But promise me that you'll say something. That man doesn't know how to ask. He needs areal clear sign, ten feet tall, before he'd believe in himself. Maybe you could show him it's safe to.”
I stood and we hugged, and I waved as she headed down the street.
Mags came by and refilled my coffee mug, and I sat back, scrolling through my phone, looking at old pictures from my time in Denver, and a few more recent ones of Holden. One from last week, him at the workbench, completely unaware I was photographing him, his face soft with concentration as his hands moved through stems. He was almost smiling in that one.
What if I was the brave one and said it first and he didn't want the same thing? What if I put myself out there and he just saidokayagain, the same way he'd said it last night when I left?
Marceline poked her head out from under the table, sniffing. I broke off a corner of my abandoned toast for her, then one for Bubblegum.
One week. Less than that, really. A handful of days of working beside him, pretending everything was normal while the clock ran down.
