“Six works,” Grant replied.
Caitlin clapped her hands once. “Perfect.”
Burke picked up the file again, tucking it under his arm.
“I’ll come back out later,” he said. “Take a few of these with me. See what I can dig up.”
Caitlin leaned into him briefly, satisfied.
“Good,” she said.
Grant turned toward the door.
“I’ll get things started,” he said. “Y’all don’t get too lost in here.”
Izzy watched him go.
Then looked back at the table.
“Just getting started,” she said.
And this time, they all knew it.
16
Grant's House — Barbeque
The air on the back patio was thick with pine and charcoal, that perfect North Carolina evening where the humidity dropped just enough to feel like a silk sheet against your skin.
Izzy stood at the kitchen island, tossing a massive bowl of greens. She’d traded her structured silk for denim shorts and a soft, lived-in tee that read Blue Ridge Provisions—a find from her afternoon in town with Caitlin. Her hair was twisted into a messy knot, her legs bare, sun-warmed.
She looked less like a Denver gallery manager—and more like someone who had finally exhaled.
Caitlin leaned against the counter, slicing red potatoes, a quiet smile playing at her mouth.
“You know,” she said, bumping her shoulder into Izzy’s, “when you first got here, I was a little worried.”
Izzy glanced over. “About what?”
“You looked like you were one ‘rebrand’ away from a full breakdown.”
Izzy huffed a laugh. “That bad?”
“Worse,” Caitlin said lightly. Then softer—more honest—“But look at you now.”
Izzy paused, hands still in the bowl.
“It’s the air,” she said. “Or the lack of people talking about profit margins and brand identity.”
“It’s more than that,” Caitlin said.
She set the knife down and turned fully toward her.
“I’m just glad you’re here, Iz. I know your life is in Colorado, but… seeing you like this? In a kitchen? Laughing?” She shook her head. “I wish you lived here.”
The words landed deep.
Izzy swallowed, that sudden, tight feeling rising in her.
