He tosses me a can. “You know normal people spend their Wednesday nights indoors in front of the TV, right?”
“I’m not normal people.”
“Yeah, no one’s arguing that.” He drops onto the step beside me and cracks open his beer. “You could hire someone to do this, you know.”
“I could,” I say, taking a long pull. “But then I wouldn’t have anything to do but sit around and think.”
He chuckles. “About what?”
I give him a look. “Work. Always work.”
He looks skeptical. “Sure. Because you’re definitely out here at eight o’clock thinking about campaign budgets.”
I shake my head but don’t answer. He’s not wrong. The truth is, I have a lot on my mind— stuff I haven’t told anyone, and I don’t plan to. I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about the girl from the brewery. The one who looked at me like she could see straight through every line I’d ever used. The one who left without telling me her name.
Noah’s still talking, something about Cove’s upcoming fall launch, but I’m only half listening. I keep seeing her face, hearing the dry edge of her voice when she said,You should probably stick to one woman at a time.
I haven’t been able to forget that. I exhale, shaking my head like that might clear her out of it.
“You coming in?” I ask Noah, interrupting him. “Or are we drinking out here tonight?”
Noah grins as he stands up, shaking the sawdust off him. “Inside sounds good. I was hoping you weren’t going to ask me to help you out here.”
I snort. “I’ve seen you hold a drill. You’d be more of a hazard than a help.”
He laughs, following me toward the sliding doors. Kicking off my boots, I step inside, padding across the oak floors to the kitchen.
The house has come a long way since I took possession. Gone are the dark, narrow hallways, popcorn ceilings, and carpet older than I am. Now, it’s light and open with wide-plank hardwood, crown molding, and soft neutral tones that feel calm even when I don’t. The kitchen’s my favorite part: natural wood cabinets, brass fixtures, a farmhouse sink that looks like it belongs in a design magazine.
Noah whistles as he steps inside. “Jesus, Jess. You could eat off these floors.”
“Don’t,” I say, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet. “I just had them waxed.”
He shakes his head. “You really are turning into Ford.”
“Careful,” I say. “That almost sounded like an insult.”
We sit at the island, beers cracked, the conversation flowing as easily as it always does. Cove comes up again — the new spring campaign, the board meetings, the upcoming product launch.
“So,” Noah says after a while. “How’s the marketing department holding up after the shakeup?”
I lean back, running my thumb along the lip of my glass. “Ford hired someone new to help with the rebrand. Another consultant. I haven’t met her yet.”
“You don’t sound thrilled.”
I shrug. “Ford brought Landyn in not that long ago, and now there’s another new hire. It’s starting to feel like I’m running a revolving door instead of a marketing team.”
“You know Ford. He’s wanting fresh eyes and new ideas.”
A few months back, Cove’s HR team brought in Landyn to help clean up our brand image after an eco-conscious backlash.The kicker was Landyn wasn’t just another hire, she was the woman who’d broken Ford’s heart and vanished without a trace years ago. The whole thing turned Cove upside down for a while, but somehow, Ford and Landyn worked through it. Now they’re disgustingly in love, and they’re parents to Poppy, the little girl who has every one of us wrapped around her little finger.
Thinking about Ford, happily settled and all blissed out on family life, probably shouldn’t make me think about a total stranger, but it does. The blonde from the brewery—her sharp tone and quick wit, the way she looked me dead in the eye like she wasn’t impressed by a damn thing about me. I can’t decide if it pissed me off or hooked me. Probably both.
Noah and I grab a couple more beers from the fridge and flip on the game. Our hockey team is playing, and even though we both claim we don’t have time for sports anymore, we still manage to yell at the screen like we’re twelve years old again.
It’s just before ten by the time the game ends. Noah stands, stretching. “Alright, I’m heading out before Ford starts a group chat about tomorrow’s meeting.”
I laugh, walking him to the door. When it clicks shut behind him, the quiet settles back in. I load a few dishes into the dishwasher, my eyes drifting toward the half-finished deck outside, silently assessing what’s left to do before the weather turns. I’m in the middle of compiling a mental to-do list when my phone buzzes on the island with a message from Ford.
