“I know.” He breathes out. “Can I cash in on that listen and give me advice thing now?”
“Yes, I told you, I’m here.”
He inclines his head slowly. “The whole situation with Jerry—um, my father—” he corrects after he sees the confusion on my face, “only you and my therapist know.”
“Is it because he’s not well?”
“Yeah. He’s really sick now, and I’m trying to give him the chance to explain and forgive him, but it seems like for every step forward, we take ten steps back. I don’t want to include my friends in something that might not end happily, you know?”
“I know.”
“My life is a little bit of a shit show right now, which is why—” he huffs a humorless breath “—fixing things, managing the business, and coaching are my happy and steady things. So going to your house the other day felt good.”
“Thank you again for that. And for dinner.” I squeeze his hand once before withdrawing.
That crooked smile makes a brief return, the one that tugs at one corner first before spreading evenly, almost as if he’s trying to contain it but failing miserably. “I’m glad to hear that because…that’s what I’m here for today. I came to help you with the broken sign you mentioned.”
My lips part. “Holden, you didn’t have to?—”
“Yes, I did.” He levels me with that warm, golden-hazel stare. “Because if you fell off that ladder, I was gonna have a heart attack, and I’m already emotionally compromised.”
I gasp dramatically, hand on my chest and mouth open wide. “Excuse you? I have never fallen from that ladder.”
“And you never will, because I’m helping now. So,” he pops up from the chair, “I’m here to help!”
I laugh. “You’re so ridiculous and dramatic.”
He shrugs. “And handy. Ridiculously handy.”
“Oh my God,” I groan, covering my face. “Stop.”
He only laughs, clearly proud of himself.
I glance at the clock on the wall. “Well, my dramatic handyman, the shop’s closing in twenty minutes, and I’m starving.”
Holden perks up instantly. “Are you hinting at feeding me?”
I lift my brows. “If I order burgers…and help you fix the sign, would that be okay?”
With his signal, we dive into the task—him on the sign that fell over months ago, and me ordering the burgers. Time passes quickly between laughs and chatting about anything and everything at once.
We sit on the floor behind the front counter, burgers and a mountain of loaded fries between us, the shop lights dimmed to a cozy golden glow, and the newly fixed sign hung. Holden has one leg stretched out, showing his thick, strong thigh, the other knee bent. Athlete thighs, if I’ve ever seen them. I’m cross-legged, trying not to stare at how good he looks in that olive shirt with the tattoo peeking out from under it.
“So,” he says, shoving a fry in his mouth, “where’s your little one today?”
“Vero? My friends took her and my eldest blueberry picking after camp. That’s why I was able to stay here longer.”
“You have two kids?”
I nod. “Vero, my three, almost four years old. And Bella, who is almost fifteen.”
His eyes open impossibly wide.
I pause mid-bite. “You look surprised.”
“Not bad surprised,” he insists quickly. “Just…you have a teenager?” He sets his burger down, looking at me with an intensity that’s somehow soft.
“Yup.” I wipe my hands on a napkin, pulling my knees up. “I’m old enough to have a teen. Trust me. So don’t look at me like that.”
