“That’s generous of you.” She smiled, and there it was again—that warmth, that openness. Like she hadn’t noticed I’d barely spoken ten words to her yesterday. Like my silence didn’t bother her at all. “Do you want to come in for coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
I should say no. I said no yesterday when she offered dinner. Saying no was smart. Safe.
“Sure,” I heard myself say.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Her smile widened, and she turned toward the cabin, gesturing for me to follow. I watched her for a moment—the sway of her hips, the way her sweatshirt moved with each step—before forcing my feet to go.
Inside, her laptop sat open on the kitchen table, surrounded by thick textbooks and yellow legal pads covered in handwriting. Highlighters in four different colors were lined up in a neat row. She’d turned Eunice’s kitchen into a study command center.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, sliding a few papers aside. “I’m kind of in crisis mode with midterms coming up.”
“When are they?”
“Two weeks.” She poured coffee into a mug and handed it to me. “Which sounds like a lot of time, but trust me, it’s not. Property law alone is going to kill me.”
I took the mug and leaned against the counter, keeping space between us. “Why law school?”
The question came out before I could stop it. I didn’t ask people about themselves. I didn’t want their stories, their dreams, their reasons. Knowing things about people meant caring, and caring meant?—
I shut that thought down hard.
“Honestly?” She poured her own coffee and wrapped both hands around the mug. “I like arguing.”
That pulled a sound out of me. Not quite a laugh, but close.
“I’m serious,” she said, grinning. “I was that kid who always had to know why. Why can’t I stay up late? Why do I have to eat my vegetables? Why is that rule a rule? My parents thought I’d grow out of it, but I only got worse. By high school, I was on the debate team, and by college, I figured I might as well get paid for being argumentative.”
“So you’re going to be a lawyer so you can argue professionally.”
“Basically.” She took a sip of her coffee. “What about you? What do you do?”
The question landed like a punch to the gut. Simple. Normal. The kind of thing people asked all the time.
But for me, it wasn’t simple.
“Construction,” I said. “Handyman work, mostly. Whatever needs doing around here.”
It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t all of it.
Three years ago, I’d been a foreman for one of the biggest construction companies in Denver. I’d had a crew of twentyguys, a reputation for running a tight site, and a future that looked like steady promotions and corner offices.
Then Kevin died.
Kevin, twenty-two and eager and reminding me too much of myself at that age. Kevin, who I’d taken under my wing, who I’d been training to move up. Kevin, who trusted me when I said conditions were fine—when I said we could keep working—when I made the call that put him on that scaffold.
The scaffold that failed.
I could still hear it. The crack of metal giving way. The shout that cut off too quickly. The silence after, which was somehow worse than any scream.
“You okay?”
Emory’s voice pulled me back. She was watching me with concern in those blue eyes, her head tilted slightly.
“Fine,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“You looked like you went somewhere else for a second.”
