She would be right.
“Eduardo seems good for her.” My voice lowers, matching her tone, because I can tell we’re moving into heavier territory—somewhere deeper, somewhere she’s not sure she wants to go.
She exhales slowly as she dries the plate. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
We work in silence for a while, the quiet stretching between us while I give her space. I can practically hear her thinking, weighing something in her head as she dries each dish with careful, deliberate movements.
Then she finally asks “So, who’s her new neighbor that you’re helping?”
I hesitate for half a second, just long enough to realize I don’t want to lie to her. But I also know the truth might stir something in her—something that has nothing to do with me but might still make her bristle or start to speculate things that aren’t going to happen. That would never, ever happen. Because it feels like I’m slowly building trust with her, and I don’t want to fracture something that important to me.
I finish rinsing the last glass and hand it to her before shifting my stance, turning to give her my full attention now.
“My ex-wife just moved back to town,” I say evenly. “With her husband and daughter. They bought the house next door toyour grandmother. Didn’t know that until she called me an hour ago unexpectedly.”
Aly’s brows shoot up. “And she… reached out to you… why?”
“For help. She has some sort of renovation project she wanted me to look at and come up with an estimate.” I lean a hip against the sink, assessing her reaction.
Her brows raise even higher.
“She wants you to work on the project?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “Wow. She couldn’t have found anyone else to do that? I mean, it certainly seems like…” She doesn’t finish. “Never mind.”
“Don’t,” I tell her.
“I didn’t say anything.” She turns her attention to the dish towel, drying the glass with the precision of an architect.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“How could you possibly when I’m not thinking anything? My mind is totally blank right now. Not a thought in my head.”
“Alessia.” I step in closer, close enough that I can see the way her throat bobs when she swallows hard, the way her grip tightens around the cup to the point where it's about to crack. I reach out, gently tipping her chin up until her eyes meet mine. She lets out a sharp breath—more of agasp, really—her eyes widening as if it startled her that I’m touching her.
And suddenly, I know where this is coming from. This closed off reaction. Her tone. Or at least, I think I do. She’s jealous. Over my ex-wife. Over something that means absolutelynothingto me. Over a woman I don’t ever think or care about.
And—God help me—I think I’m relieved more than anything. Because if she’s jealous, that means I’m not alone in this. Not alone in the fumbling, in second-guessing, in feelingsomething bigger than I know what to do with because I know she’s still fragile and trying to figure her new reality out.
“You’re jealous?”
“I’m not jealous,” she snaps, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “Why would I be jealous? I don’t care.”
Her tone is enough that I instinctively take a step back, because for all my rough edges, I feel things deeply—especially rejection. Especially when I’ve been rejected before by the one woman I thought never would.
“It’s just weird,” she continues, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as if that can keep me out. “Like there aren’t a thousand contractors in Brookhaven she could’ve called?”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I turn back to the sink and unplug the drain. The soapy water starts to go down it slowly.
“There actually aren’t. Plus, she knows my work. Knows the detail I put into things. The focus I have. The attention I pay. She said she wanted the best and that’s what I am.”
Aly scoffs, voice dripping with something dangerously close to bitterness. “I bet she does know all about theattention you pay.”
Before she can say anything more, I stop her—fingers wrapping around her wrist, taking the dish towel from her hand and setting it on the countertop so she can’t dry that same glass anymore. It’s dry. She’s just doing it to distract herself from the confusing emotion that she’s feeling. I know it. It’s written all over her face.
“Hey, I wasn’t done with that—” she tries to protest.
