He doesn’t offer a handshake. Doesn’t smile. Just stares at me like I’m a ghost he wasn’t expecting to meet in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.
“I didn’t know he talked about me,” he says finally, voice flat.
“He didn’t. Not really. Just the photo. And he once called you his brother. In a letter and on the photo.” I swallow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ambush you.”
He looks away, toward the window where sunlight spills across the floor. “You didn’t.”
But he’s already retreating. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl into loose fists at his sides.
“I should get back to work,” he says, even though he hasn’t actually started any work here. He was just passing by, I realize, probably heard the ladder scraping or saw me climb up through the window.
“Right.” I force a small smile, the polite one I’ve practiced so many times since I left Travis. “Thanks again. For the catch.”
He nods once, curt. “Stay off the ladder.”
It’s gruff, almost an order, but there’s something underneath it. The way a man used to watching out for people speaks when he doesn’t want to admit he cares.
I watch him turn toward the door. He moves like he’s carrying weight no one else can see—steady, controlled, every step measured.
“Ronan?”
He pauses, hand on the knob, doesn’t look back.
“I’m sorry about Declan,” I say quietly. “I know you were there. I know you tried.”
His knuckles whiten on the door handle. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, so low I almost miss it:
“Don’t.”
One word. Sharp. Final.
He yanks the door open and steps through. The bell above it jingles once, cheerful and wrong, and then he’s gone.
I stand there in the quiet that follows, heart pounding too hard, the ghost of his hands still warm around my waist. The drip from the ceiling plinks into the trash can again—slow, steady, like a clock marking seconds I can’t get back.
I press my palm to my stomach, trying to calm the flutter there. It’s not fear. Not exactly. It’s recognition. Of grief. Of wallsbuilt high and thick. Of a man who carries the same kind of ghosts I do.
I glance at the ladder, still standing crookedly under the stain. Then, at the door, Ronan just stormed through.
The sun keeps pouring in, bright and indifferent. I take a slow breath, walk over, and fold the ladder closed. Tomorrow, someone else can fix the roof.
Chapter four
Ronan
The gravel crunches under my boots as I climb the porch steps, the sound sharp against the quiet that settles over everything this time of day. Late afternoon light filters through the pines, turning the world gold at the edges, but the warmth doesn’t reach me. I unlock the door, step inside, and let the familiar hush wrap around me like an old coat. Pine, woodsmoke, the faint metallic tang of tools. Home, or as close as I get to it.
I shrug out of my jacket, hang it on the hook, and head straight for the kitchen. Kettle on. Coffee grounds into the press. Same rhythm. Same order. The motions keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering too far. I’ve had enough wandering for one day.
The woman, Isla, keeps surfacing anyway. Her face when she said my name. The way her voice caught on Declan’s. The feel of her waist under my palms when the ladder gave way. Solid. Warm. Real in a way that made my chest tighten. I pour hotwater over the grounds, watch the bloom rise and settle. Push it down. She’s Declan’s sister. That makes her untouchable. End of story.
I carry the mug to the porch and settle into the Adirondack chair. The wood groans under me. I stare out at the sliver of ocean visible between the trees, gray and restless under the fading sky. Gulls wheel low, calling to each other. The wind carries salt and cedar. I sip the coffee, let it burn all the way down. Routine. Control. That’s what keeps the days from bleeding into each other.
I’m halfway through the mug when I hear an engine laboring up the gravel road. Not a local. Too tentative on the turns. I set the coffee on the arm of the chair and stand, muscles already coiling the way they do when something’s coming.
A beat-up sedan rounds the last bend and pulls to a stop in front of the cabin. Dust settles around the tires. The driver’s door opens, and there she is.
Isla.
