He should be grateful for the help, the extra hands on the project, but all he could focus on was the casual way Riverbumped her shoulder when she made a joke, how he’d leaned close to show her something on his phone.
Jonah followed his gaze and whistled softly. “Ah.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, it is, but you’re turning it into something. River’s just being River. He’s like that with everyone.”
Anson positioned the plank and reached for the circular saw, needing the whine of the blade to drown out the noise in his head. The oak surrendered to the cut, releasing the sharp scent of fresh sawdust. This made sense. Tools and wood and measured precision. Not whatever was happening ten feet away, where River helped Maggie sand down another piece of lumber, standing close enough that their arms brushed with each movement.
“Besides,” Jonah continued, “if you’d stop glaring at the floor for two seconds, you might notice she keeps looking over here.”
His hand faltered mid-cut, the saw jerking slightly. He corrected quickly, but not before Jonah noticed.
“Easy there. Wouldn’t want you losing any fingers.”
Anson shut off the saw and set it aside, wiping sawdust from his hands. “I’m not losing any damn fingers.”
He ignored that and picked up the cut plank, testing its weight. The wood was solid, with good grain—it would hold up to whatever the rehab horse could throw at it. Unlike his composure, which felt thinner by the minute.
“Hand me those hinges.” He gestured toward the metal pieces lined up on the workbench.
Jonah passed them over without comment, but the knowing look in his eyes made Anson want to punch something. Preferably River.
No. That wasn’t fair. River was just being River. Friendly. Open. Everything Anson wasn’t.
A burst of laughter erupted from the other side of the barn, and Anson’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. Maggie was doubled over, one hand braced on River’s shoulder as she tried to catch her breath. River grinned, clearly delighted with himself for whatever joke had landed so perfectly.
“You two want to actually work, or should we just leave you to your comedy routine?” The words came out sharp, his voice rough with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.
River’s eyebrows shot up, but his smile never faltered. “Multitasking, Sut.”
Maggie straightened, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she composed herself. Her eyes met Anson’s for a brief moment before darting away. “Sorry. We’re on it.”
The apology made him feel like shit. He hadn’t meant to snap at her. At either of them, really.
“It’s fine,” he muttered, turning back to the hinges. “Just need to get this done before dark.”
He felt more than saw Jonah’s sideways glance, the silent judgment radiating off him in waves. But Jonah, being Jonah, didn’t call him out, just picked up the drill and started pre-drilling holes for the screws.
Anson focused on the task at hand, measuring the spacing for the hinges with careful precision. The rehab horse—a big bay gelding with trauma issues that rivaled his own—had already kicked through one stall door. This one needed to be sturdy enough to withstand another panic attack.
“Hey, Anson?” Maggie’s voice came from directly behind him, making him tense. “Can I see those measurements?”
He turned, finding her closer than expected. Close enough that he could see the flecks of amber in her green eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her nose that the TV cameras never seemed to capture. Close enough that he could smellher shampoo—something clean and herbal that made his chest tighten.
“Here.” He handed over his notebook without meeting her eyes.
Her fingers brushed his as she took it, the brief contact sending a jolt through his system that had nothing to do with static electricity. She studied his neat, precise handwriting, nodding as she took in the dimensions.
“This is good,” she said, “but if we move the crossbeam up two inches, it’ll be more stable against lateral pressure.”
He’d considered that. Had actually calculated it both ways before settling on the current design. “Horse kicks straight, not lateral.”
“True, but the way the wood grain runs in these planks, you’ll get better tensile strength with a higher placement.”
She was right. Of course she was right. She’d been rebuilding bigger structures than stable doors for years.
“Okay.” He took back the notebook, trying to ignore how his fingers tingled where hers had touched them. “Higher crossbeam. Got it.”
