That makes her pause — just a fraction of a second. Like she’s filing it away.
“Evan,” Claire repeats. “Okay. Why are you asking me about this Evan?”
Because he stole my heart twice, once when we were teenagers and again now, when my heart is nothing but scar tissue. Because he cooked me dinner and made me feel cared for, and he said my name like it was a secret worth keeping. Because he’s a mess but he’s trying, and because he looks at me like I’m the only person on earth worth telling the truth to.
Instead, I say, “He’s… looking for work.”
Claire’s gaze doesn’t move. “What kind of work?”
“Repairs,” I say, the word suddenly seeming inadequate. “Handyman stuff. Construction. He can fix pretty much anything.”
Claire tilts her head. “And why do you care?”
My jaw clenches. If it were anyone else, I’d stonewall, but Claire is dangerous in that way: she makes you want to be honest, or at least less of a liar.
“He’s got a sister,” I say, voice thin. “She’s… in trouble.”
That does something to Claire’s expression. It’s the faintest flicker, but I know I’ve hit a nerve.
She folds her arms. “Tell me about the sister.”
I shrug, playing it casual, even though my heart is ping-ponging off my ribs. “June. She’s all he’s got. Their parents died when they were young, and he’s been supporting her since. She’s got some… issues. But he’s trying to keep her together.”
Claire’s gaze drops to her hands, then returns, steady as ever. “How well do you know him?”
My stomach dips.
I hate this question because it’s the right one, and the one I can’t bear to answer.
I open my mouth and the truth tries to come out —not well enough. Not nearly enough. Not enough because I want to know him more, deeper, because he fills me with feelings thatscare me to my core and make me believe things about myself that seem so contrary to who I am.
Instead, I lie a little.
“Well enough.” I hope it sounds more convincing than it feels.
Claire’s eyebrow lifts again. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
“You’re asking me to put him on our radar.”
“I’m asking if there’s any legit work,” I push back. “Roof, fence, anything. Paid. Real. Not charity.”
She regards me for a long moment. “Why not just tell him to go to the employment office? The city’s always looking for manual labor.”
“Because…” I start, then stop. Because I already said I’d see what I could do, and my pride won’t let me back out. Because he looked at me as if I mattered. Because I hate the idea of him worrying alone.
Because I love him.
I force my voice into something steadier. “Because I’m asking you.”
I can tell she’s weighing this, not just the words but the subtext, the history between us, the way my hands keep fidgeting with the bar towel I forgot to drop.
Claire’s face softens, a micro-expression, so fast it’s almost invisible. “You know this isn’t a small favor, right?”
I nod, but I don’t trust my voice.
She leans forward, elbows on the desk, and suddenly the mood in the room shifts. “If he’s trouble, I need to know now.”
