Edie stood in the middle of his condo, still wearing his shirt, lips still tingling, and tried to figure out what the hell she was supposed to do now.
Her phone buzzed.
Sam: We should talk about commissioning something for the team lounge as well.
Right. Work. She had a job. A purpose. A reason for being in this town that had nothing to do with olive-skinned hockey players who kissed like they were conducting research and made Nutella pancakes without being asked.
She could focus on that. On the mural, the project, the temporary nature of her contract. On the concrete, practical things that didn't make her chest feel like it was going to crack open.
She texted back: Happy to discuss. When works for you?
Then she retrieved her own clothes from the guest room, got dressed in something other than Tarmek's shirt, although she may have stolen one of his hoodies, and headed for the arena.
She had work to do.
And if she left his spare key on her keyring, well—that was just practical. For emergencies.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't mean anything. But as she walked through the parking lot, past the spot where her camper was still sitting like a backup plan she wasn't sure she needed anymore, she caught herself humming.
And somewhere in the distance, the arena doors opened to reveal the mural wall—half-finished, waiting, full of potential—and she thought about blank canvases and new beginnings and the terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as temporary as she'd always believed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The heater unit weighed forty-three pounds. Tarmek knew this because he'd researched seventeen different models before selecting this one—a high-efficiency propane system with backup electric, rated for temperatures down to negative thirty. Overkill for Greenwood Hollow winters, which rarely dipped below fifteen. But the specifications had listed a failure rate of 0.003%, and that number had been unacceptable.
He'd found one with 0.0008%.
Now he crouched inside Edie's camper at six in the morning, tools spread around him in precise rows, installing the thing while she slept peacefully in his bed three miles away.
It’s practical,he told himself, disconnecting the old heater—a pathetic unit that should have been condemned years ago.This is practical. She lives in this vehicle. Vehicles require maintenance. I'm simply ensuring adequate functionality.
The lie tasted sour.
He'd been lying to himself for three days now, ever since he'd started this project. Three days of pre-dawn visits to the camper.Three days of research and procurement and careful installation work. Three days of telling himself this was about practicality and efficiency and definitely not about the way his chest had seized when he'd found her shivering in four sweaters during that storm.
The old heater came free with a reluctant groan. He examined it under the weak morning light filtering through the camper's windows. Corroded. Cracked housing. Wiring that looked like it had been repaired with electrical tape and optimism.
She could have died.
The thought hit him like a body check, sudden and brutal. She'd been sleeping in this death trap for years. Traveling alone. Depending on equipment that was one bad night away from catastrophic failure. His hands tightened on the corroded unit until the metal creaked.
Stop,he ordered himself.Focus on the task. Emotion is not productive.
He set the old heater aside and began fitting the new one into place.
The camper was simultaneously cramped and fascinating. Every inch had been optimized for her particular brand of chaos—storage compartments overflowing with art supplies, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and postcards covering every available surface. He recognized some of the locations from her stories. Phoenix, where she'd painted a community center. Portland, where she'd done a three-story mural of the city skyline. Austin, Denver, Savannah.
Thirty-seven cities. He'd counted the postcards during his first visit. Thirty-seven places she'd left. Thirty-seven fresh starts. Would Greenwood Hollow become number thirty-eight?
He forced the thought away and focused on connecting the propane lines. The new heater fit perfectly—he'd measured the space four times before ordering—and the connections were clean and secure.
Next up was insulation.
The camper's original insulation was a joke with thin batting that had compressed over years of use, leaving gaps where cold air crept in like unwanted houseguests. He'd ordered closed-cell foam panels, custom-cut to fit the interior walls.
Installing them meant removing the decorative panels she'd painted herself—intricate designs of flowers and birds and abstract patterns that made his chest ache for reasons he refused to examine. He photographed each section before removing it, documenting the exact placement so he could restore everything precisely.
She'll notice, part of him whispered. She notices everything.
