“Your furniture is incredible,” Marcella says, running her hand along the back of the couch. “Did you really make all of this?”
I nod. Words feel stuck.
“The craftsmanship...” She crouches down, examining the joinery on the coffee table. “This is museum-quality work, Finn. You could charge a fortune for pieces like this.”
“I do okay.”
She looks up at me, those brown eyes too perceptive. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you’re an artist. This isn’t just furniture—it’s beautiful.”
Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest. Compliments are hard. I never know what to do with them, how to respond without sounding either arrogant or dismissive. Moira tells meI should learn to say “thank you” and move on, but my brain doesn’t work that way. Every kind word feels like a trap, like there’s an expectation attached that I’ll fail to meet.
Jimmy used to give me shit about it.Take the compliment, McGrath. You’re a good shot. Just say thanks and stop looking like someone pissed in your coffee.
The memory surfaces without warning, sharp-edged. Jimmy’s grin. His easy confidence. The way he could defuse any awkward moment with a joke.
I shut it down. Lock it away. Not now.
“You should let someone know where you are,” I say instead, my voice rough.
Marcella blinks at the abrupt shift, then understanding dawns. “Coralyn. Oh God, she’s going to lose her mind.” She pulls out her phone, frowning at the screen. “One bar.”
“Storm’s probably affecting the towers.”
She taps out a message, biting her lip in concentration. I try not to watch her mouth. Fail.
“What are you telling her?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Marcella glances up, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “That I’m not dead, not kidnapped, and that she gave me the wrong address. In that order.” She returns to typing. “Also that Boyd is apparently a massive jerk, so thanks for nothing on the matchmaking front.”
“You’re telling her about Boyd?”
“I’m telling her I saw him through binoculars being horrible to another woman and that the universe clearly intervened to save me from that disaster.” She hits send, then looks at me with something like gratitude. “Which it did. In the weirdest possible way.”
The universe. Right. Not the universe—just a forgotten door lock and a determined storm.
Her phone buzzes. She reads the reply, laughs, then groans.
“What?”
“Coralyn wants to know if you’re hot.”
I feel my neck heat. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you’re a murderer with three heads and a collection of human skulls.” She’s grinning now, the earlier tension bleeding out of her shoulders. “She said I should ask if you’re single.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately, the wind chooses that moment to hit the ranger station like a fist, rattling the windows and making Marcella jump.
“Jesus,” she breathes. “That’s...”
“Going to get worse.” I move to check the window seals, a task that gives me an excuse to put distance between us. “Storm won’t peak until late tonight. We’ve got hours of this ahead.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller. “Finn? I really am sorry. For all of this. For invading your space and making you deal with me when you obviously—” She stops, starts again. “I can tell you like being alone. I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible.”
I turn to look at her. She’s standing in the middle of my living room, arms crossed over her chest, making herself smaller. Like she’s trying to take up less space. Less air. Less everything.
My jaw tightens.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
