I press my palms flat on the desk. The wood is warm from the sun through the window. Solid.
“Anyway,” I say, because I've reached the limit of what I'm willing to feel before noon. “A four-hundred-and-fifty-ton yacht needs serious dock reinforcement, and I've got three weeks.”
Justin accepts the subject change because he's a good brother. “You'll need to double up the support posts on at least two spots. Maybe more, depending on where they put the ramp.”
“Already on it.”
“I can help with the underwater work. My back's been—” He stops. “I can help.”
“Been what?”
“Fine.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was thinking about the ramp, not my spine.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
"I'm an excellent liar. You just know me too well."
He says it light, but the deflection lands a half-second too late. I fileit away. Justin doesn't want to talk about his back, which means I'll be watching him closer than he'd like for the next few weeks.
I let it go because Justin lets my things go, and that's how we work. We carry our separate weights side by side without asking to share the load. Holly would have told us it's not healthy. But Holly's gone, and two Spencer brothers sitting in a dock office not talking about their feelings is the closest we get to therapy.
“There's another thing,” I say.
“What?”
“Emma's the photographer.”
Justin's mouth twitches. Not a smile—Spencer men are incapable—but adjacent to one.
“Don't,” I say.
“Didn't say a word.”
“You were about to.”
“I was going to say that's a big opportunity. For her.”
“It is.”
“Sounds like you've given it some thought.”
“She'll need dock access. Power for her equipment. A staging area.” I keep my voice flat. “It's logistics.”
“Logistics.Right.”
“Justin.”
“I agree completely.” He stands, wincing before he straightens—he thinks I miss that, but I always catch it—and heads for the door. “She's good, you know. Jo showed me the pictures from her and Dean's wedding. Really good.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“You haven't said anything about her at all. Which tells me plenty.”
He leaves.
