I keep my smile warm and sunny, but the idea of a dog rankles any sense of peace I had left. A dog is just one more reason Derek can complain—I see it now, rabies, dog bites, irresponsible pet owners, and somehow, it'll be all my fault. “A dog? That’s exciting. Ethan's been begging for one for years. He’d be over the moon if you got one. But you really didn’t have to take all this on yourself. I could have called a handyman eventually or fixed the worst spots myself.”
Caleb grunts and slams the digger down again. The post resists, tilting even worse. “Easier to do it right once instead of patching it later when both sides have to match.” He levers the tool with extra force and muscles stand out along his arms and back.Sweat drips from his brow. “This one post is being a real pain in the ass today. Keeps shifting no matter what I do.”
I stay rooted in place, refusing to let his grumpy tone push me away. “Well, it already looks so much better just from what you’ve done. Those old sagging boards have been bugging me for months. The whole neighborhood will be grateful when it stops looking rundown. You’re doing a great job.”
He gives a curt nod, barely acknowledging me, and goes back to wrestling the post. The grumpy energy is thick—he’s clearly deep in the task and irritated that I’m standing here chatting while he works. Still, I don’t retreat.
“You’ve been out here working hard for a while,” I say, keeping my voice bright. “You must be thirsty. Can I grab you a cold beer from the fridge? It’s the least I can do after you took on the whole fence without even being asked.” God, the only way out of this is to befriend him, which I don't want to do at all, but if I don't, Derek will keep accusing me of letting a stranger do things around here.
And those muscles are causing me problems. My body hasn't been touched by a man in three years and Mr. Caleb Ward is one hundred percent man. My God, is he hot.
Caleb pauses again and finally looks at me fully, expression still edged with frustration but softening just a touch. “Yeah. A beer would actually be good right now. Thank you.” There's a hint of that smile I saw the other day when he fixed Ethan's bike, but still masked with frustration.
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.” I turn and head inside, but my happy-go-lucky attitude is fading. Caleb is a problem I never accounted for, and Derek is going to use it against me. I hatethat I can't just have a normal life because my new neighbor is actually sweet, albeit a little rough around the edges. Probably from his military life.
When I walk inside, Ethan's already sprawled across the couch, reading the instructions for his gaming system. I'm not sure if he knows how to hook it up, but I sure as heck don't. I'll have to get on YouTube to figure it out.
“Grilled cheese sandwiches and soup in about twenty minutes, okay, buddy?” I call toward the living room.
“Uh-huh, sure, Mom,” he answers without looking away from the box, lost in the instruction manual.
I open the refrigerator, pull out two cold bottles of beer, and pop the caps. Condensation rolls down the glass as I grab a couple of clean paper towels and head back toward the side door, keeping that same positive energy in every step. I can't be rude to the new guy but I also can't let him ruin things with my son. I'm going to have to find a way to make it clear that Ethan's father isn't pleased with his being around here, and he'll have to keep his distance for a while.
But when I round the corner to the side door and slink down the hallway, Caleb stands right there in my open doorway. Bright red blood drips from his right hand onto my welcome mat, drop after drop soaking into the fibers. A deep, jagged gash runs across his palm and between his fingers, and his face is contorted in pain.
My stomach drops, and I have a feeling this is going to be yet another story Ethan runs to tell his dad. “Oh my gosh, what happened?”
And how do I explain this to my angry ex who wants to steal my son?
4
CALEB
The instant I step over the threshold bleeding, Olivia's eyes go wide.
“Oh my gosh, what happened?” She sets the two beers down on the hallway table and grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the kitchen before I can say a word. Her grip around my wrist is hard, but she avoids the gash and moves quickly. "Ethan, stay in the living room, okay?"
"Why?" his voice calls from somewhere in the other room.
"Just do it, please."
She guides me to the kitchen sink and turns on the cold water, easing my hand under the stream. The gash looks worse than it is. The post-hole digger's edge is sharp at the right angle and split skin but missed anything vital. It wasn't easy to do to myself but necessary to gain entry to her home. It stings like hell, though. I'll give myself that. Apparently, I didn't hold back enough and the cut went deeper than I planned.
"What happened?" she asks, pulling paper towels off the roll.
"The digger slipped when I was tamping the post. Caught the edge of a fence post on the way down when I lost my grip." I wince as the cold water hits the open wound, and blood swirls in the sink as it makes its way down the drain.
"That's deep, Caleb. You might need stitches." Olivia is so careful, tenderly prying the edges of the cut up to let the water wash it out. Meanwhile, I'm trying to scope out her kitchen or whatever I can see around here. I'm not sure how long she'll let me stay, but I have to meet with the client later and give him some sort of an update.
"Nah," I mumble, "it looks worse than it is. Just needs to be cleaned up and wrapped tight."
She doesn't argue with me, which I appreciate. She opens the cabinet above the sink and reaches for a first-aid kit on the top shelf. Standing on her tiptoes, stretching, she has to shove a few things aside to get to it. I leave my hand under the water to keep rinsing the blood away, but I see a prescription bottle sitting on the counter, not hidden at all.
I narrow my eyes but can't really see what the label says, but it's more evidence to what the client suggested, that Olivia's on something and perhaps is not mentally fit to be a mother. He said she was "medicated and barely holding it together", though I have to disagree with the second half of that.
"I just can't reach it," she groans, turning toward the table. I assume she's going to snag a chair to stand on, so I shake the water off my hand and walk over, reaching for the first-aid kit. It gives me a better view of the pill bottle, which clearly saysSertraline. But half the country's on that shit. It's not proof that she's unstable. In my mind, it's proof she's taken steps to make sure she remains stable to be there for her child.
But I'm not paid to pass judgment. I'm just here to collect information for my client.
