I just don’t know if Ican.
I dish up the cake, which Fletcher hadn’t even seen above the fridge. Georgie is thrilled and takes a ginormous piece back to her room. Fletcher and I eat our pieces at the table.
“Will you stay for a movie?” he asks quietly.
I scrape a little more frosting off the plate before licking my fork. “Sure.”
We settle on the couch, far enough apart that it won’t look suspicious if the girls come out, yet Fletcher reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. When Avalon comes out to grab a glass of water, we break apart, then slide right back together.
Finally, at nine, Fletcher drives Avalon home. I take it as my cue to go and walk to my room, feet dragging along the stone path. Every limb feels exceedingly heavy after all that work today.
When Fletcher returns, he knocks on my door.
He doesn’t come in, but shifts nervously on his feet. “So, um. Georgie is at her mom’s this weekend,” he says plainly, raising a brow.
My heart stutters. “Yeah?”
He nods. “I’m thinking you cash in that raincheck and share a bed with me?”
I reach for his hand, wishing I could kiss him. “I’d like that.”
Fletcher smiles. “Great.”
I’m grinning when I close the door.
For the first time in a long time, I can’t wait to go back to work—if only so the week goes faster.
12
FLETCHER
I’m sore. Sore in that deep, insistent way that crawls into my joints like concrete slowly setting under my skin. I shift my weight to ease the pressure on my right knee, but the movement only makes my hip protest. Damn tight bathroom corners. I knew they’d be a pain, but after nearly two weeks in, I feel like I’m ten years older.
I’ll definitely need my hot tub again tonight.
A groan escapes me as I push myself up from the crouch I’ve been in for too long. I rotate my shoulders until they crack. Ahmed and Jose are finishing the molding, so I decide to slip away for a break.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I grab my lunchbox from the floor and step out of the women’s bathroom, the noise of the bar filtering back in. It’s late in theday for us, only a couple of hours before we head home. But it’s early for the bar, so it’s fairly quiet.
I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my wrist and immediately look toward the door. When I don’t see Vince, my heart sinks.
I walk a little further, finding him wiping down a table. It makes me pause. It’s nice to see him away from the door, but his posture catches me off guard. He’s bracing his weight heavily on his right leg, head hanging low. The closer I get, the clearer it becomes: he’s paler than usual—almost ashy.
I step in beside him, and he barely looks up at me. He’s leaning against the table like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, one hand flat against the surface, his chest rising shallowly under his black shirt.
Shit. He isn’t okay, and he isn’t even hiding it.
A cold slice of worry cuts through me, and I place a hand on his back before I can stop myself. “Hey. You okay?”
He blinks up at me, eyes unfocused. “Yeah. Just… got dizzy for a second.”
“Have you eaten anything today?” The question comes out sharper than I meant to, but Vince can be so damn stubborn. Determined to hide his symptoms just to avoid appearing weak. That includes taking breaks or eating on the clock.
His silence is all the answer I need.
“Vince.”
