Chapter 3
GINGER
He holds the stud finder against the wall, slowly dragging it across the surface until it lets out a short beep. He marks the spot lightly with his pencil, then continues down the line.
I tilt my head. “Is that thing really necessary?”
“Unless you want your shelves crashing down in the middle of the night.” He gives me a quick, teasing glance. “Yes. It’s necessary.”
I cross my arms, watching him with mild skepticism as he moves the stud finder again. “I guess I figured you for a guy who’d just wing it.”
“Sure,” he says, tapping the wall where he just marked. “If you want your mugs shattered on the floor and me banned from your shop.”
“Fair point,” I admit.
“You always want to screw at least one bracket into a stud, more if you can manage it. They’re the strong points behind the drywall. Everything else gets an anchor.”
I arch a brow. “An anchor?”
“Plastic or metal sleeves that you push into the wall first. They expand behind the drywall when the screw goes in. Helps distribute the weight so it doesn’t rip out.”
I make a face. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Not as much work as patching holes and sweeping broken glass.”
“Okay, I’m convinced.”
He grins and continues measuring, making small pencil marks where each bracket will go. I watch the efficient way he moves, tape measure snapping back, level in one hand, pencil in the other. It’s all so competent. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before.
“Here,” he murmurs, handing me the pencil. Our fingers brush, and I pretend not to notice the jolt that races up my arm.
He lifts the first bracket to the wall, lining it up with the marks. “Grab that level and hold it steady, right there.”
I hurry to do as he says.
“You got it?”
“Yep.” I step in close, near enough that my shoulder almost grazes his arm. “You’re just barely off.”
He adjusts the bracket with a tiny smirk. “Impossible. I never mess up when someone’s watching.”
I smirk right back. “So, you only perform well under pressure?”
“I thrive under pressure.” His eyes catch mine, and for a second, we’re just standing here, bracket in his hand, level in mine, practically nose to nose. “Or haven’t you noticed?”
My laugh comes out as more of a breath. “I’ve noticed you think you thrive under pressure.”
He drives the first screw in with a sharp zip, the sound reverberating through the quiet shop. I hold the level steady as he secures the second screw into the stud.
“Next one goes here,” he says, sliding over a bit and checking for another stud. When he doesn’t find one, he sets the bracket aside and picks up a wall anchor. “No stud here, so we go with Plan B.”
“You make it sound like this is a battle strategy.”
He winks. “Every good wall project is a battle against gravity.”
We fall into a rhythm. He finds studs, drills in anchors, and aligns the brackets. I hand him screws, double-check the level, and try not to notice how natural working side by side like this feels. Like this is a regular Sunday night thing.
While we’re setting the second shelf, I reach across him for the pencil on the worktable. My arm brushes his back.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
He glances over his shoulder but doesn’t move. “I didn’t mind.”
I did. Not in a bad way. In a way that makes my pulse skip and my breath hitch. It also makes me annoyed with myself that the smallest contact with him can have such an effect on me.
By the time we reach the third shelf, I almost feel like a pro at being his assistant.
“Got it?” he asks as I brace the wood.
“Please. This barely weighs more than a latte.”
He adjusts his grip on the drill. “I’m trying to be chivalrous.”
“I don’t need chivalry. I need straight shelves.”
“Damn, that’s cold.” One side of his mouth arcs upward as he starts drilling.
When we finally finish, it’s past six, and the shop windows reflect nothing but darkness and the interior lights.
Jordan steps back, eyeing our work. “Now comes the moment of truth. What do you think?”
I fold my arms, tilt my head, and study the shelf-lined wall. “Perfectly level. They look beautiful.”
“Good.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’d be crushed if you hated them.”
“To be honest, I’m really impressed.”
“I told you I’ve done this before.” He gives me a playful nudge with his elbow.
“Travis wouldn’t have done it better,” I tease.
“Please. You mean he couldn’t.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’ll never understand brothers and the endless competition.”
He crouches to gather fallen screws. “Competing is part of our DNA. But honestly? I’m more competitive with myself.”
“How so?”
“It could be anything. Brushing my teeth longer. Lifting more at the gym. Being a better boss. I have this internal push to do more with everything I do.”
Here’s another thing I never knew about him.
“That makes sense.” I nod slowly. “I do that with baking. Each batch of muffins has to be better than the last.”
He looks up, eyes lighting with recognition. “Exactly. I might take it to the extreme, but it keeps me from coasting. Besides,” he adds, rising to his feet. “We both know I’ve got enough flaws to balance it out.”
Is that what he thinks? That I’m always silently judging him? That makes me sad. If only he knew he holds a permanent soft spot in my heart.
“Who doesn’t?” I reply softly. “We’re all works in progress.”
“Oh, come on, G. You’re damn near angelic.”
A surprised laugh bursts out of me. “Definitely not true.”
He wipes his dusty hands on his jeans and walks over. When he stops in front of me, there’s a glimmer of mischief in his warm brown eyes. “Confession time. Tell me a secret. Something you’re ashamed of.”
I hesitate. “No way. Then it’s not a secret anymore.”
He gives me a knowing smirk. “See? Angelic as fuck.”
My brows draw together. “Pretty sure it’s blasphemous to say ‘angelic as fuck.’”
He barks out a laugh. “You can’t help yourself.”
Great. He thinks I’m some goody-goody prude who never lets loose. Which, these days, may be more accurate than I’d like. But when I was younger?
“One time in college, I ran a bake sale to cover for a friend’s weed business.”
His eyes go wide, then narrow before he teases me. “You? You little criminal. Tell me everything.”
“If we’re going to have this talk, I need coffee. Do you want some?”
“Yes, please.”
I move behind the counter and pour the dark brew into two disposable cups. I add cream to mine and leave his black, like he prefers. I put covers on them and add a muffin to a plate before sitting at a table. Jordan takes a seat across from me, and I slide both his coffee and the plate toward him.
“Thank you, G. I haven’t eaten since lunch. This is gonna hit the spot.”
“There’s plenty more if it’s not enough.”
He pops a bite between his lips with a groan, and chews. “Mmm, is this cranberry?”
“Yep. It’s one of the seasonal options I offer.”
“It’s fucking amazing.”
Warmth blooms in my chest at his praise. This is why I do it. This is why this place means so much to me.
He takes a sip, brow furrowing. “What’s in the coffee?”
“Gingerbread.”
He goes back for another sip. “You’d think I’d hate that, but it’s really good.”
“You’re not too manly for gingerbread?” I tease.
“No, I am. But for you, I make exceptions.”
I laugh. “Aren’t you glad I showed you what you’ve been missing?”
“You bet.”
“I should’ve given you pumpkin spice. That’s always a big hit. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Yeah, I actually had requests for it at the dispensary.”
“What, like pumpkin spice weed?”
He chuckles. “No. They were looking for edibles.”
“Why don’t you have them?”
“The companies I purchase from don’t make them.”
“Maybe you should learn how.”
He laughs. “Yeah, no, thanks. I can barely cook well enough to survive.”
“I could teach you,” I quickly offer, not thinking it through.
Oh crap.
“You’d be willing to do that?”
Since I can’t retract my words, I just nod. “Sure. You’ll need to supply the cannabis oil, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
“That’s not a problem. How much do you need?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’ll need to look up some recipes and see the recommended amount to use.”
He sips his coffee and then licks his lips. “When would you like to tackle this?”
“Next Sunday is the best option since we close early.” I drum my nails against the wooden tabletop. “Unless you want to meet up on Thanksgiving night? Then you’d have some to sell for Black Friday.”
“You’re a genius, G. I could kiss you right now.”
I wouldn’t complain.
“Why? What did I do?”
“The dispensary will have specials for Friday, so adding seasonal edibles is a fantastic idea.”
“I’m glad you think so. Now I hope they’ll turn out okay.”
“I have complete confidence in you.” He raises his cup toward me.
“That’s nice. Thanks.”
He shrugs. “Well, I know you give your all at everything you do.”
“Speaking of giving your all, thanks again for hanging the shelves. They look amazing.”
“I’m glad you’re happy with how they turned out. What kind of merchandise are you planning to sell?”
“I have mugs, glasses, t-shirts, sweatshirts, hats, and some small items Nina suggested to put near the cash register.”
“Yeah, the impulse buys. I have some of those set up in my shop, but I should put out more.”
“Since Nina helped me start thinking about the importance of marketing, I’ve been paying more attention when I go inside other shops. I’ve noticed how the checkout areas are lined with impulse buys.”
He nods. “I know I’m a sucker for those.” When he pops the last piece of muffin into his mouth, he stands. “Where’s your broom?”
“In the kitchen. Why?”
“I want to sweep the floor.”
“No, I’ll take care of it. You’ve helped enough.”
He ignores me, retrieves the broom, and begins sweeping up the drywall dust.
“You’re pretty good at that,” I tell him.
He laughs. “If you only knew how many times I’ve been the cleanup crew when working on a project with my dad or my grandfather.”
“I would’ve thought with Drew being the youngest sibling, that would’ve been his job,” I say.
Jordan pauses, sending me a look that says, are you serious? “He’s the baby and didn’t have to do much of anything. Which is probably why he lacks direction now.”
“I don’t see him that way at all.”
“I shouldn’t say that, but Travis and I worry about him. He’s easily sucked in by anything he thinks could make him money. He’s been selling some random brand’s vitamins and protein powders as a side gig.”
“That sounds harmless. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, and, more importantly, a good heart.”
“He does, and it’s the good heart thing that worries me. I don’t want someone taking advantage of his kind nature.”
“What’s the age difference between you two?”
“Three years.”
“So he’s thirty-two?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“He’s a grown man, Jordan. Maybe it’s time you give him the benefit of the doubt and see where he ends up.
I’m thirty-four, and it took me until last year to open this place.
Not everyone wants or needs to settle into a lifelong career right after college.
He just needs to know what he wants to do for now. The rest will happen organically.”
He remains silent for a moment and then nods before he resumes his sweeping. “You’re right. He’ll find his way like the rest of us did.”
Standing, I clear the table, tossing our empty cups in the trash and placing the crumb-dusted plate in the sink.
I grab a takeout box and fill it with various kinds of muffins—chocolate chip, blueberry, cranberry, maple pecan—and carry it over to where Jordan is still sweeping everything into a neat pile.
“Here.” I hold the box out with one hand and reach for the broom handle with the other. “Let me take this.” He resists, tugging playfully, but after a brief tug of war, he lets go with a grin.
“What’s this?” he asks, shifting the box under one arm.
“Those are thank-you muffins.”
His eyebrows lift, then drop just as quickly. “Awesome. You can thank me with your baked goods any time you want.”
I laugh. “It’s not nearly enough. You’ve helped me so much.”
He brushes my reply away with a wave of his hand. “No need to thank me again. I’m glad you’re happy with how the shelves turned out. If there’s anything else you need, all you have to do is ask.”
There’s a quiet sincerity to his words. I’m so used to Jordan the jokester that I’m caught off guard, and all I manage is a nod.
“I guess I’ll see you Thursday night,” he adds as he heads toward the door.
“Actually, you’ll see me a little earlier than that. Your parents invited my grandfather and me over for Thanksgiving dinner.”
He pauses and turns around. His lips slowly spread into a wide smile. “Seriously? That’s great.”
I shrug, suddenly feeling shy. “Your mom insisted.”
“She has surefire methods for getting her way,” he says. “But now I’ll have a reason to look forward to it.”
“Me too,” I say quietly.
He opens the door and hesitates, allowing the cold air in. I smell woodsmoke and salty air. “You never told me the weed brownies story.”
“I guess we’ll have to save it for Thursday night. Drive safely.”
He lifts his hand in a wave. “Always.” Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there for a moment, broom still in my grasp, and take in the quiet of the shop. The shelves are up, and the work is done, but it feels as though he sucked all the energy out of the room when he left.