She’s pretty in a way that isn’t careful about it. No polished presentation. Just heat and energy and a spark that looks like it could burn the place down if she got bored. She stares at me like she’s surprised I exist. Then she nearly drops the post hole digger on her foot. I catch it.
I look at the cart again, place the tool inside, and notice the concrete. She couldn’t have lugged those bags on there herself. No wonder the cart is rattling under the strain.
I glance back at her.
“Concrete?”
She answers like someone who doesn’t know the answer herself.
“Yes.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She bends to grab one of the bags. I already know what’s about to happen. The bag tilts. She jerks backward. I catch it before it crushes her foot.
The weight settles easily in my hands. Sixty pounds isn’t much when you’ve spent most of your life lifting heavier things. I toss it over my shoulder. Her eyes narrow at the bag as if it had personally conspired against her, then they land on me.
“Those are heavier than they look.”
“Yes.”
Up close I can see the exhaustion under the fire. Not just tired … maybe worn thin.
“You’re new here,” I say, because it’s obvious.
Then the explanation starts. The words pour out of her like water down a hill. I listen. I should tune it out. Let her burn herself out and move on.
I don’t.
People talk fast when they’re overwhelmed. They talk faster when they think no one’s listening. She’s doing both. By the time she finishes, I know two things.
One, she definitely bought property up the ridge. Two, she’s about three bad days away from packing everything up and selling it again. I’ve seen that pattern before.
A woman with big plans and no patience for the work between beginning and reward. Still, something about the way she speaks makes me think she doesn’t want to leave. Not really.
She’s waiting for something — advice, judgment. Maybe both.
Instead I say, “Millie’s diner is across the road.”
She blinks.
“What?”
“You’re talking faster than I can follow.”
“Let’s get lunch. Start over.”
Truth is, I want to know what she actually bought. And whether she’s going to ruin it before it ever has a chance to grow. If it’s the ridge property I think it is, the land’s good — just neglected. And if she keeps trying to fix it with internet advice and a pickaxe, she’s going to wreck that place before she even starts.
She watches me like she’s deciding whether I’m serious or dangerous. Could be either with a hot redhead like her.
Chapter 3
Rainey
Millie’s Mountain Diner smells like coffee, bacon, and the kind of comfort food that could fix emotional damage if you ate enough of it. The place is busier than I expected for the middle of a weekday. Parking is scarce outside. Through the charming cafe style windows, I can see that every booth seems to hold at least one person wearing flannel. Which makes sense. We’re in the mountains. Apparently flannel is the official uniform.
Troy pushes the door open and holds it for me, and the bell above the frame jingles like we’ve just walked onto a stage.
