I blink, tearing my gaze away from the window.
“What’s with the face?” she asks, reaching for her coffee, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
I force a smile, aiming for casual and missing completely. “Nothing.”
Her brows lift. “That’s definitely not nothing.”
I hesitate. “It’s nothing. You missed it,” I say.
“Missed what?”
I sigh. “Jesse Winters. He was just across the street with a little girl. I didn’t know he has a kid. It was just…surprising.” I look back across the street in time to see him re-emerge from the shop, holding the door open as the girl bounces out with a bubble gum-pink ice cream in her hand.
Lottie follows my line of sight, letting out a low whistle when she spots them. “Damn. He’s cuter in daylight. Also—adorable kid.”
“Stop” I warn. “You’re not allowed to find him charming. He’s off-limits, morally and professionally.”
“Relax, Mads. I’m just saying. Hot dad energy hits different.”
I shoot her a look. “You’re not helping.”
I reach for my coffee, mostly to give my hands something to do. It’s lukewarm now, but I sip anyway, pretending to focus on the menu card on the table instead of the image of Jesse that’s burnedin my head.
Lottie hums softly to herself, scrolling through her phone, while my thoughts spiral in ten different directions. I know it shouldn’t get to me—he’s my boss, it’s not my business. But there’s something about the image I just can’t shake.
I shove the rest of my croissant into a napkin, my appetite now gone.
“Ready?” Lottie asks a few moments later, glancing up from her phone. “We should hit the market to pick up something for dinner before we head home.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing and brushing crumbs from my lap. “Let’s go.”
Maybe a change of scenery will stop me from obsessing over my new boss and wondering if I just saw a side of him that I wasn’t meant to see.
FIVE
Jesse
The sun’s sinking behind the trees when I set the drill down and flex my hand, rolling out the stiffness in my wrist. The deck stretches out in front of me, a patchwork of cedar and sawdust. It’s not much to look at yet, but it’s getting there — one more project to keep me busy, one more thing I can build with my own hands.
The house came with what realtors like to call potential. Uneven floors, patchy paint, and plumbing that groaned like a ghost at night before I replaced it. It’s the property that sold me — one and a half acres tucked into the woods, close enough to the water that I can smell the salt in the air when the wind shifts. I’ve had help fixing up the inside, but the deck I’ve been working on myself, piece by piece, the same way I’ve always done things.
I usually work into the night, an LED light illuminating the space after the sun goes down. I tell myself it’s because I like working with my hands. The truth is, I’ve never really known how to sit still. The work quiets the noise in my head.
I crouch to fit the next board, driving the screw in with practiced rhythm. I’ve been building things since I was a kid — shelves, birdhouses, a ramp for my skateboard. Ever since I stepped into the woodworking room in high school, and I felt something click. The teacher was the first adult who ever looked at me like I had potential. He took the time to teach me the basics, then he handed me a set of plans and trusted me to figure it out. I built a side table that semester, and it’s still in my garage. Crooked legs and all.
My dad isn’t the kind of man who builds things or fixes them, just like he wasn’t the kind of father who showed up at baseball games or offered advice. He’s more likely to break things and then blame it on someone else. He worked when he wanted to, drank when he didn’t, and basically left us to raise ourselves. If it hadn’t been for Ford holding us boys together after Mom died, we would’ve fallen apart.
These days, I could buy any damn table I want. But I still like the sound of a drill and the weight of good wood. Some habits stick, no matter how much your bank account changes.
I lean back, wiping my arm across my forehead, and take in the view. The trees along the property line are a bright emerald green which will soon turn to gold. A British Columbia winter will hit soon enough, and I want to have this deck built by the time it does.
I grab another board. This—sawdust, splinters, the smell of cedar—this is my version of therapy. Some guys go to the gym or see a shrink. I build things. Out here, I don’t have to think about deadlines or strategy, or the father I can’t seem to stop making excuses for. It’s strange how you can know someone doesn’t deserve your empathy and still feel it anyway.
I shake my head, forcing the thought away just as headlights sweep across the yard. A second later, a truck door slams,and my brother Noah is rounding the corner with a six-pack dangling from one hand.
“You working, or punishing yourself?” he asks, setting the beer on the railing.
“Little of both,” I say, wiping sweat off my forehead.
