Chapter Two
Xavier
The Next Morning
The wind cuts straight through the open frame of the house, carrying the aroma of damp lumber and cold earth.
I adjust my grip on the level and sight down the wall again.
“Still off?” Mark steps up behind me.
“Quarter inch. Which turns into a bigger problem the higher we go.”
“Everything turns into a bigger problem with you,” he mutters.
I ignore him, shifting the stud and checking it again. Better. Not perfect. Close enough that it won’t haunt me later.
“That one’s good.” I step back.
Nate hammers it into place, the loud crack echoing through the skeletal frame of the house. Sawdust hangs in the air, catching the weak daylight, and the whole place smells like fresh-cut pine and metal.
It’s a clean job. Straight lines. Solid foundation. The way it should be.
“Kitchen’s going to sit right here?” Mark tips his head toward the open space in the center of the building, his faded cap low and his beard pointed from where he pulls it down when he’s thinking.
“Yeah.” Today is Mark’s first day on this job, as he’s been finishing up a project on the other side of town.
“Good spot.” Nate straightens from the stud with the hammer loose in his hand, forearm flexing from the last swing. A stripe of sawdust clings to the front of his black T-shirt and a sweat stain darkens the brim of his cap. “Central. Pipes’ll run clean.”
“Less chance of freezing.” And just like that, I’m back in the sheetrock aisle. Three shades of white. Wrong anchors. A cart full of optimism and no plan.
I exhale through my nose, dragging a hand over the back of my neck.
Mark cocks a brow. “Something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’ve been staring at that wall like it’s not doing what you told it to.”
“It’s crooked.”
Nate drops the hammer into his tool belt, crosses his arms over his chest, and glares like I’d insulted his masterpiece. “It’s not crooked anymore.”
I don’t answer. It’s not the wall. It’s her standing there, arms crossed, arguing about paint. The way her hair worked free of the clip when she pointed at color samples. Like it’s not all going to look the same once it dries.
The way she’s over her head but too stubborn to admit it. But there’s this focus in her eyes that doesn’t fade, no matter how lost she gets. The corner of my mouth tugs up before I can stop it.
“Yeah….” Mark says. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That look.” Mark runs his over his beard, leaving a trail of sawdust along the edge.
These guys are assholes. “What look?”
“The one that says you’re not thinking about work anymore.”
“I’m thinking about work.”
Mark arches his brows. “Sure you are.”
“Right.” Mark pats the stud beside me, and says, “Then tell your girlfriend I said hi.”
“She's not–”
“Didn't ask.”
Nate glances over, mouth twitching, and drives another nail in. “Wilkins was talking about you this morning.”
I go still for half a second before I can help it. “Yeah?”
“Said you were over there yesterday,” Nate says, “Helping Ruby Bennett pick out supplies.”
Mark lets out a low whistle. “That right?”
“It’s not like that.” I regret the words the second they leave my mouth. Because now they’re both looking at me.
“Oh, it’s definitely like that.”
The urge to punch Mark in the mouth to erase the smug look on his face is fast and intense, but I suppress the urge. Dad will be pissed if I assault an employee.
“It’s not anything.” I crack my neck. “She had the wrong anchors.”
“So you just… wandered in and saved the day?” Nate’s innocent expression is every bit as annoying as the smug one on Mark’s face.
I relax my jaw, trying to ease the building tension. “I was already there.”
Mark scratches his beard like he's thinking it over. “Funny. I've been to Wilkins three times this month.” He shrugs. “Never accidentally ended up helping a pretty woman remodel her house.”
Nate snorts. I grind my teeth together. Assholes.
Rather than throwing it at one of their heads, I set the level down harder than necessary. “She was about to hang a shelf with anchors meant for drywall the thickness of a cereal box.”
Nate grins as he grabs another nail out of his tool belt. “You always this invested in other people’s shelves?”
“I’m invested in not fixing things twice.” If the cement were still wet, I’d consider planting them in it and starting over with a new crew.
“That’s not what I asked.” He grins wider as Mark chuckles under his breath.
I shake my head, turning back toward the wall. “Get the next board lined up.”
“Deflecting,” Mark says.
“Working.” There’s a difference. There has to be.
I grab another stud and carry it into place, setting it against the frame and holding it steady while Nate lines it up. The wood is rough under my palms, solid, real, something I can measure. Adjust. Fix.
Not like… I cut the thought off before it finished. “Level.”
Nate checks it, nudges it. “Good.”
I keep my hand there a second longer than necessary before stepping back.
“Y’know,” Nate says, not even pretending to focus on his own task now, “she’s not the kind of girl you just ‘help pick out supplies’ for, and you’d flirt with a wall.”
“I know.” The words scrape out harder than I intended.
And that’s the problem. Because I do know, she’s not casual. Not temporary. Not something you half-step into and walk away from when it gets complicated. She’s….
I drag my hand down my face. “And I don’t flirt with walls.” Or with Ruby Bennett.
“Then why’re you messing with it?” Nate lifts the hammer in one hand while holding a nail against the stud with the other.
“I’m not messing with anything.” I turn back to the wall.
“You showed up.” Nate straightens the nail and slams the hammer against the head.
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“You stayed.” Mark pipes up from the other side of me.
I don’t answer right away. Because yeah. I did. Longer than I needed to. Long enough to notice the way she argues when she’s in over her head. The way she doesn’t back down. The way she…
I step back, grabbing the tape measure and snapping it out harder than necessary. “Next wall.”
Nate watches me, then shakes his head. “Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
I ignore him, moving to the next section of the frame. Measure. Mark. Cut.
Simple. Clear. Defined. The way things are supposed to be.
Not like standing in a hardware store, watching a girl argue over paint colors and pretending she doesn’t need help. Not like offering to stop by and knowing I shouldn’t, not like wanting to anyway.
“She’s not someone I mess around with.” I’m not sure if I’m telling them or myself.
Nate doesn’t even hesitate. “Then don’t.”
That’s the plan. It’s always been the plan. I don’t know why it feels like something I’m going to have to fight myself to stick to.