Chapter 14
AMY
My boss is starting to get suspicious.
When I first got back to Denver, he’d acted like it wasn’t a big deal at all that I was stranded. I’d lied, saying I was stuck in Granite Peaks at the little lodge, rather than admitting I’d spent the weekend with Evan at his cabin.
The moment he got my emailed debrief, he called me into his office.
“What do you mean—conditions were not feasible for investigation?”
“The roads were unsafe,” I’d said, standing in his office, trying my hardest not to show the truth on my face. “I couldn’t even get through. Have you seen my car, Don?”
He’d just made a low, unsatisfied noise and told me to get back to work.
It’s Friday again, and I’m driving the road into Granite Peaks, which is more familiar to me now on the third time through. As I drive, I have three separate phone calls, coordinating with the other associates working on a different case.
I’m almost into town when my phone rings, and this time, it’s not someone from work.
“Kirstin,” I say, breathless. “Hey, everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, voice flat. “Where are you? Your location shows you’re leaving town? You have another work trip?”
“I… yeah,” I choke out, because that’s not exactly true, but I can’t tell her that. How can I explain to her that I won’t be around this weekend due to a sort of anti-work trip?
“Oh,” she says, then, after a moment, “you know, Greg’s friend was talking about that opening at his firm again.”
I swallow, flipping on the turn signal and turning onto yet another mountain road, my car faithfully climbing up the winding path. “Hopefully they can find someone.”
“You remember when you were going to law school?” Kirstin asks, prodding like she always does. “The kind of jobs you’d talk about eventually taking?”
I bite my tongue to keep from saying what’s obvious about that; those jobs don’t pay the bills. They’re all stress and no payoff. And with my staggering student loans, the only way I’m going to tackle them is with a higher-paying position at a major firm.
This is one area in which Kirstin and I have always been different. She and Dad were the dreamers, Mom and I the pragmatists. And in the divorce, it sometimes felt like each parent took the kid they really wanted.
Thankfully, before I can get too lost in the past or have to come up with a response to Kirstin’s half-baked question, I hear one of the kids squeal in the background, and laugh, “Is that Jordan?”
“Ugh, yeah.” Kirstin laughs. “He’s running around in those light-up shoes.” She pauses, pulling away from the phone. “Jordy, you wanna say hi to Aunt Amy?”
For the next ten minutes of the drive, I talk to Jordan and Rae, my spirits lifting considerably when I hear their soft, excited little voices.
“All right, guys,” I say, turning off the car and sitting for a moment, “I have to get going, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”
We say our goodbyes, and Kirstin gets back on the phone. “Just think about it, okay, Amy?”
“Okay,” I relent, even though I know I won’t. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Okay,” I say, breathless, when Evan leads me in through the front door of the theater. “Why were you not interested in working on this place?”
It’s gorgeous—all tall ceilings, stonework, and a faint mildewy scent that communicates how long this building has existed.
It’s a huge space, and we move through the marble lobby and into the main theater room, where two massive red curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor, genuinely taking my breath away.
“Evan!” someone says, and an older Black woman hurries around the side of the stage, a clipboard in her hand and an air about her like she has too many things to do and not enough time to do them. “You made it! I’m not going to lie. I thought you would chicken out.”
“Ha,” he mutters, and we’re quickly pulled into another room, where the woman introduces herself as Beverly Munoz—volunteer director of the project—and sets us to work.
First, she describes to Evan the woodwork they need for this part of the building, which will be a theater-themed coffee shop. Then, she turns to me, pointing to the other side of the room, where paint supplies sit neatly stacked.
“And you can start with that wall,” she says. “That part is done. You can work right along behind Evan, paint when he’s done with the wood.”
“Oh!” I hold my hands up, shaking my head, wondering how to explain that I’m here as moral support. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and my chest tightens with the thought of the other work I have to do—correspondence with other associates, paperwork, leads to follow. “I’m not—”
But she’s already gone, bustling out of the room, and Evan turns to me, an amused look on his face. “What’s wrong, Amy? Not interested in working on this place?”
I open my mouth, but I’m interrupted by my phone ringing. I reach into my pocket to answer it, but to my shock, Evan crosses the room, plucking it right out of my hand.
“Hey!” I say.
“It’s after six on a Friday,” he says, scowling at my phone as it continues to ring. “You’re not an ER doctor. What could possibly be so urgent?”
My face heats. It’s not the first time I’ve had my work-life balance questioned. But it is the first time that it’s happened with a man like this so close to me, the minty, woodsy scent of him washing over me like it did in his living room.
I try to gather up a response to what he said, but my brain scatters into thoughts of his hands on me, the satisfying scrape of my nails over his back.
“Amy?” Evan asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up, like he knows what I’m thinking.
After that night, I’d driven home rationalizing the choice to sleep with him. It was just to get it out of my system. If I was going to help him through it, it only made sense that we took action on our obvious attraction to one another.
But it doesn’t feel like it is worked out of my system.
It feels deeply rooted, wound into my nerves, sitting in the back of every thought I have.
My phone stops ringing, and the sudden silence pulls me out of the moment. I realize I’ve been staring at Evan’s lips and take a step back from him, trying to gather myself.
“You can’t just take my phone,” I say, crossing my arms. “That’s rude.”
“You’re right,” he relents, handing it back to me, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes. “Also pretty rude to drag me out here and be on your phone the whole time.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
We’re interrupted by a woman’s voice. “Did you need more guidance on this?”
We both jump, turning to find Beverly standing in the doorway of the room, her eyes bouncing between us. They settle on me, looking me up and down, as though reassessing if I’m capable of doing something as simple as painting the wall.
“No,” I say, a gut reaction, my instinct to try and be capable and reliable at all times. “No, we’ll get it done.”
Besides that, I see a flicker of myself in this woman—the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she leans on the wall like she couldn’t possibly hold herself up. And I want to help.
So, when she walks away, I set my phone to silent and place it face down on the counter. Evan looks at me appraisingly, then nods and turns back to his job.
And for the next four hours, we work side by side. At first, Evan reviews the plans, then alters them a bit, making something he calls a cut list. When he needs my help, I join him at the saw, holding one side of the wood while he cuts it.
When he doesn’t, I go back to painting, making an even coat over the wall, climbing up on the ladder and moving steadily along.
I move to the space behind the coffee bar, which Evan is making quick progress on, and when we need to move past one another, he puts his hands on my hips, maneuvering me carefully.
Each time, it makes a shameless sort of heat move through me, and I avoid his eyes. In a way, I’m here for work. Not here to follow him back to his cabin, see what else we can do with another night together.
When Beverly returns to the room to check on us, her eyes widen. “Wow! Are you two the dream team, or what? This looks amazing!”
Evan and I glance at one another, and I try to swallow down the ball of glowing pride from the praise. I really am a simple girl.
“We’re closing up for the day,” Beverly says, nodding at us. “But we’d love to have you back, Evan. And Amy—will you be around tomorrow?”
“We’ll be around,” I say, pulling on my coat. “But we have some other tasks to take care of.”
“Shoot—well, I’ll be in touch.”
With that, it’s time to go. Evan insists on walking me to the lodge across the street, insists on grabbing my duffel bag from the trunk for me, and carrying it inside.
The person at the front desk’s eyes go wide when they see us, and I realize Evan is kind of a character around town—people recognize him and seem to have some preconceived notions about who he is.
“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk is saying, five minutes later. “I’m not finding a booking under that name.”
“But I called to make the reservation last week,” I insist, trying to keep from getting angry. I really don’t want to make the drive back to town right now. “How could it not be there?”
“It must have been a mistake.”
“Well, can you book me a room right now?” I say.
“We’re full. Only four rooms, so it fills up fast.”
I turn and curse under my breath, and Evan appears, putting his hand on my elbow. “It’s okay,” he says, voice low. “You can stay with me.”