She turned, staring at the heavy window covering that muted the natural sunlight she craved for her blog photos. Lifting the shade, she struggled to get it all the way up. As she tugged, the whole thing fell off, landing on her forearms and raising a cloud of dust.
She sneezed three times. “Well, at least there’s light.” Not that it made things look much better. The countertop was dark. The wood was a light oak. If she had time to do a trailer makeover, she might have a cute backdrop.
One thing at a time, she told herself.
She reached for Grams’s recipe box. The woman had grown up cooking over a woodstove. There had to be something in here that she could cook in this tiny space. Something simple.
Once she found it, she’d make those brownies for the guys. The homestead felt empty and abandoned without their constant chatter and the sound of power tools. For the first time since she’d married Cash, she was lonely. Which struck her as odd, since she’d been single for so long.
Shaking her head, she went back to work. There was no time to analyze why she missed the scent of Cash’s soap or relive the passionate kisses they’d shared on the side of the road. If she let the opportunity to publish this cookbook slip by, she’d be labeled as the flighty person Sammy kept implying that she was.
A failure.
What would she tell her parents if she lost her agent?
It was time to try harder.
Chapter 16
Setting up the Hansen job took the rest of that day, and by the time Cash got back to the trailer, night had fallen. He and Maggie had put sheets on the bed and he’d shown her how the couch folded out, insisting that he loved sleeping on his side with his legs tucked into his chest and wouldn’t have it any other way.
There was a lot more stuff in the trailer: bowls, wooden spoons, and the like. He had a small cubby in the bathroom for his clean clothes. They opted to store the rest of their personal items in the compartments accessible from the outside, filling them by flashlight. She’d washed her hair in the sink, and then they’d fallen into bed exhausted.
She’d snored for ten minutes and then was silent. It was a cute snore, a noise he’d imagine a squirrel making as it tucked in for the night.
He never did get his cuddling lesson, which was awfully disappointing. But they were tired, and he probably would have fallen asleep with her in his arms and never wanted to let go.
He needed to be able to let go, because she still had the option of backing out of this whole thing when the house was done. If he got too attached … the consequences would be bad.
This morning, she sent him off with a pan of brownies and a kiss that was much sweeter than the goodies he handed over to an eager crew on his way to the city offices to ensure that their permits for adding a dining room to the Hansens’ existing structure were approved. He strode through the doors, the scent of stale paper—if there was such a thing—hitting him in the face. To his right was the place where he’d married Maggie. A strange fondness warmed him. He’d never been sentimental about a town or a building, but he didn’t think he’d be able to be here without thinking of her. If she did leave him, Moose Creek would never be the same.
He strode through a set of double doors and headed right for the guy who approved building permits. That was one benefit of working in a small town: there wasn’t enough money for gatekeepers. “Hey, Jackson.”
Jackson looked up from his computer screen. “Cash. What can I do for you?”
Jackson was a former high school football champion who had gone off to college with dreams of fortune and fame, been injured in his first college game, lost his scholarship, and ended up working at a fast-food joint to pay his way through university. He’d shouldered all of it with a determination to succeed no matter what life threw his way. He had a little house in town but no wife or kids.
Cash briefly considered telling him to place an ad in The Matchmaker, but he decided against it. His own marriage wasn’t stable in any way—including the fact that they lived in a portable camper trailer. He was in no place to give advice. “I moved up the start date on the Hansens’ dining room and wanted to make sure we were all good.”
Jackson typed for a moment. “I don’t see a problem.”
“Do you mind printing those off for me?” Cash walked over to stand next to the big box printer.
“Sure.” Jackson hit the button. He squinted and moved closer to the screen. “What’s this on your house, though? Mold?”
Cash moaned, taking the first page out of the printer and glancing over it to make sure everything was right. He was on high alert. Messing with his home was one thing, but messing with his company was another. Men relied on him to provide income, and he took that responsibility seriously. “Don’t ask.” The health inspection was bunk—proving it would be difficult, though. Throwing around accusations would only lead to more drama and paint him as the bad guy. Besides, Jackson and Mark Murdock worked together. They could be weekend drinking buddies for all he knew.
Jackson grinned. “It’d be good if your application for a historical landmark went through, though.”
A cold draft raced down Cash’s neck. “What application?”
Jackson looked at him like he’d forgotten to put on his shirt that morning. “Your application.”
“I didn’t submit an application.” Cash felt like he was using the same words over and over again.
Jackson hit a key and the printer warmed up, spewing pages. “Let’s ask Carol.”
They walked across the room, weaving through desks and filing cabinets that didn’t seem to be in any sort of order. In the farthest back corner, blocked from view by a line of bookshelves, was an office of sorts. The woman sitting behind the 1970s monstrosity of a desk had small glasses perched on the end of her nose and gave off a stern librarian vibe. “May I help you?” she asked in a formal tone.
