She set the plate down and put her hand on the frame. The window lifted smoothly, no scrape, no resistance. She lowered it again and fastened the latch. Opened it once more. Closed it.
Her fingers rested on the brass catch for a second longer than necessary.
“You fixed it.”
“It was only the latch.”
“Still.” Her gaze shifted to him briefly, then back to the window. “Thank you.”
He nodded once, suddenly not trusting himself to say anything useful.
They ate their sandwiches perched on the porch steps, shoulder to shoulder this time. The bread was fresh, the ham sharp with mustard, and the company was growing more comfortable by the hour.
“This is almost as good as the muffins,” he said.
Meryl nudged him lightly. “Almost? Are you saying you don’t appreciate my culinary skills?”
“I have a sweet tooth,” Spencer tried to explain.
“The muffins were exceptional,” she agreed lightly as she bit into her sandwich.
Good save,his bear murmured as he settled down for an afternoon nap.
After that, the last hour of work passed quickly. They secured more boards, marked out what would need proper lumber the next day, and stacked the salvaged timber in a neater pile beside the shed.
By the time Spencer packed up his tools, the porch was beginning to look less like something waiting to collapse and more like something solid again.
Meryl stood with her notebook tucked under one arm, looking over what they’d done.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
She looked at him with a smile that robbed him of breath. “I’ll have coffee ready.”
“I look forward to it,” Spencer replied.
But you look forward to seeing our mate more,his bear said as Spencer loaded the last of the tools into the truck.
Of course.Spencer got in the truck and started the engine.
As he drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Meryl was still standing on the porch, watching him. The sight stayed with him long after the cottage disappeared behind the trees.
Chapter Seven – Meryl
He was here.
Meryl heard Spencer’s truck before she saw it, the low rumble carrying up the lane to Pine Cottage. Her first instinct was to go straight to the porch and watch him arrive.
She stayed where she was.
Barely.
Instead, she poured coffee into two mugs and then busied herself in the kitchen, cleaning the inside of the cabinets, refusing to go out onto the porch to greet him. It was just Spencer. Just another morning of work.
That was all.
Outside, the truck door shut. Boots hit gravel. A moment later, she heard him on the porch.
“Morning,” he called.
