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“I don’t want you moving into my place.”

Her eyebrows lift.

I take her hand.

“I want us to have ours.”

The old Whitmore house sits on six acres at the edge of town.

Clara recognizes it the second I turn onto Phantom River Road.

“No.”

“Yep.”

“Ryder.”

The farmhouse needs work.

A lot of it.

But the porch wraps around three sides, there are old trees everywhere, and the detached garage is big enough for four motorcycles.

Five if Clara learns to park properly.

She gets off the bike and stares.

“Lila and I used to ride our bikes past this house.”

“I know.”

“You bought it?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

I take the folded plans from my jacket.

She looks at me suspiciously.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“That is never true.”

I unfold them and her eyes move over the renovation plans.

Kitchen.

Primary bedroom.

Porch restoration.

Garage.

Then she stops.