“And if she’d said no?”
“Then at least I would’ve known I gave her the choice instead of making it for her.”
Neve’s voice again, gentle but unyielding. “Davin, from what I know about you, you’re the kind of man who carries everything so others don’t have to. I bet you’re carrying something for this new woman of yours. Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is letting them carry you back.”
We talk for another ten minutes. Alban tells me about a custom cabinet job he’s designing. Neve describes a wedding cake disaster that somehow turned into her most popular design. Their voices blend together with an ease that speaks of years and choice and showing up even when it’s hard. When Ihang up, the sun has climbed higher, warming the air by degrees but doing nothing for the cold settling in my bones.
Inside, Tilly’s humming while she inventories stock for the shop. The sound carries through the walls, domestic and easy, and my body responds before my mind can catch up. My pulse kicks. My hands ache to reach for her. Every instinct I have says go to her, pull her close, make sure she knows she’s mine.
But what if Alban’s wrong? I’ve been so busy claiming her that I never stopped to think about the future. What if the intensity I feel is too much, too fast, too consuming? She’s probably falling for me because I’m the first person who’s been kind to her since her breakup. What if I reach for her the way I’m aching to and she recognizes the truth: that I’m not steady or careful, just desperate and barely restrained?
I should go back inside. Help her finish the list. Make lunch. Keep building the foundation we’ve started.
Instead, I stand in the doorway and watch her work. She’s wearing one of my flannels over her shirt, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, bites her bottom lip when she’s uncertain. Every small gesture makes me want to cross the room and show her exactly how thoroughly she’s gotten under my skin.
The wanting is a physical ache in my spine, a restless energy that makes my hands shake.
I move to the kitchen and pour coffee I don’t want. The mug is warm against my palms.
“Everything okay?” she asks without looking up from her screen.
“Yeah. Just my brother Alban checking in.”
“How is he?”
“Good. He and his wife Neve are doing well.” I lean against the counter, keeping the island between us like a barrier. “They’re inGranitehart Ridge, Virginia, Shenandoah Mountains. They want to meet you sometime.”
“I’d like that.” She turns back to her screen, and the easy dismissal makes my jaw clench. She should demand more. Should push me to explain why I’m standing ten feet away when every cell in my body is screaming to close the distance.
“I’m almost done with inventory,” she continues. “Once the roads are fully clear tomorrow, we can start moving things into the shop.”
“Sounds good.”
She glances at me, and her expression shifts. Those sharp eyes miss nothing. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out flat, unconvincing.
She closes her laptop and stands. When she crosses the space between us, my entire body goes taut with awareness. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw, and the touch sends heat straight down my spine. Her palm is warm against my skin, and I have to lock my knees to keep from leaning into it.
“Talk to me,” she says.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“That’s not true.” Her thumb strokes across my cheekbone, and the gentle touch makes my throat feel tight. “Something’s bothering you. I can see it.”
I pull back, needing distance before I do something stupid like pin her against the counter and show her exactly what’s bothering me. “It’s not important.”
“If it’s affecting you, it’s important to me.”
The words hang heavy in the air. I set my mug down and put more space between us. “I’m fine, Tilly. Just tired.”
Hurt flashes across her face. She doesn’t hide it fast enough, and seeing it makes guilt claw up my throat. “Okay.”
The single word carries weight. She doesn’t push, doesn’t demand, just accepts my withdrawal and turns back to her laptop.
The afternoon drags in careful silence. I try to work on the shelves, but my hands won’t cooperate. Every cut is wrong. I want to throw the tape measure hard enough to leave a dent in the wall. Instead, I give up in silence, already missing what could’ve been between us.
Tilly works at the dining table, pen scratching paper.
