14. Delilah
DELILAH
I text Kane at ten-thirty on Thursday morning.
ME: Can you come to the bakery? Need your opinion on something.
The lie tastes familiar in my mouth. I don't need his opinion. The contractor already walked me through the plans twice and I understand them fine. But I want to see him again and this feels safer than admitting that out loud.
His response comes back in under a minute.
KANE: When?
ME: Now works. If you're free.
KANE: Send me the location.
I send him the address of the burned building, wondering what the hell I'm doing.
I told him to stop pushing. To let me figure this out without feeling like he was waiting for me to make the right choice.
Now I'm texting him to come see me less than twenty-four hours later.
Amazing consistency, Delilah.
By the time Stepan's car pulls up outside, I'm standing on the sidewalk trying not to look like I've been waiting. Kane gets out wearing jeans and a black sweater that does illegal things for his shoulders, and for a second I forget why I asked him here.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey." He shoves his hands in his coat pockets. "What did you need me for?"
Right. The thing I allegedly needed his opinion on.
"Come inside."
The front of the building still smells like smoke despite the cleaning crew's best efforts. The walls are stripped down to studs, the floor torn up, everything gutted to the bones. It hurts to look at it. But the structure is sound and the contractor promised me eight weeks to full rebuild.
Kane follows me through the space without comment.
"They're keeping the original footprint down here," I say, gesturing around. "Front of house, kitchen in back, same layout as before. But upstairs—" I head toward the rear staircase. "That's going to be a little different."
The second floor used to be storage. Boxes of supplies, extra equipment, the type of junk you accumulate when you run a business for seven years. Now it's bare beams and exposed brick and light streaming through the windows.
"I'm turning it into an apartment," I say. "Bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette. Nothing fancy, but it'll be mine."
Kane walks the perimeter slowly, taking it all in. "Smart move."
"You think?"
"House money goes into the rebuild, insurance covers most of the business losses, and you end up with equity and a place to live." He stops by the windows overlooking Fourth Avenue. "Plus you're on-site. Security's easier."
I hadn't thought about security. But of course he did.
"Come here," I say. "I want to show you something."
He follows me to the back corner where the bedroom will be. Right now it's just a taped-off rectangle on the floor, but I've already spent hours imagining how it'll look. The bed against the far wall. A reading chair by the window. Maybe some plants.
"This is where I'll sleep," I say.
Kane studies the space. "Good natural light. High ceilings."
"Yep."
"Close to the bathroom."
"Very practical."
"Big enough for a real bed instead of a cot."
My stomach does a tiny flip. "That was the idea."
He's looking at me now instead of the room. "You're giving this tour a lot of detail for someone who just needed my opinion on the rebuild."
"I'm being thorough."
"You're showing me your future bedroom."
"It's part of the floor plan."
"Lilah."
I cross my arms. "What?"
"Why am I really here?"
Because I wanted to see him. Because I woke up thinking about him and spent breakfast replaying yesterday's conversation and by ten I couldn't stand it anymore.
But admitting that feels like giving up too much ground.
"I told you," I say. "I wanted your opinion."
"On?"
"On whether the layout makes sense. And whether turning the second floor into an apartment is worth the investment. And—" I gesture vaguely at the space. "All of it."
Kane steps closer. "You're asking whether I think you should build yourself a bedroom directly above your bakery."
"Yes."
"And you wanted me to see where your bed is going to be."
My face heats. "You're reading too much into this."
"Am I?" He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Because it seems like you're paying a lot of attention to that particular detail."
"You're the one who mentioned the bed."
"After you brought me up here specifically to show me."
He's right and I hate it.
"Fine," I say. "I wanted you to see the apartment. Is that a crime?"
"No." His voice drops lower. "But I'm trying to figure out whether you're planning to invite me back here once you have furniture."
The question hits south of my ribs and stays there.
"I don't know," I admit.
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
We're standing too close. I should step back, put distance between us, remember that I asked him to stop pushing. But my feet won't move and he's looking at me like he's trying to read my mind.
"If I said yes," I ask slowly, "what would you do?"
"Right now or later?"
"Either."
"Right now I'd probably do something that violates the professional distance rule. Later I'd show up whenever you asked and do whatever you wanted."
My breath catches. "That's a lot of power to give someone."
"You've always had it."
Before I can respond, footsteps echo up the staircase. Kane steps back and I turn to see Rob, the contractor, emerging with a clipboard and an apologetic vibe.
"Sorry to interrupt," Rob says. "But we've got an issue with the estimate."
My stomach sinks. "What kind?"
"The upstairs plumbing is worse than we thought. Needs to be entirely replaced, not just repaired. And the HVAC system—" He flips through documents on his clipboard. "Bottom line, we're looking at another forty-two thousand on top of the original estimate."
I do the math in my head. Insurance covered most of the business losses. The house sale gave me seven hundred and twenty-five thousand. I budgeted four hundred thousand for the rebuild, which leaves enough cushion for emergencies and operating capital.
Except now the rebuild costs four hundred and forty-two thousand instead of four hundred.
Which means my cushion just got a lot smaller.
"Can you give me until Monday?" I ask.
"Sure thing." Rob heads back downstairs, leaving Kane and me alone.
I'm already running numbers. Maybe I can cut costs on other things. Cheaper finishes in the bathroom. Standard fixtures instead of the ones I picked. Skip the reading chair.
"I'll cover it," Kane says.
The words hit like cold water.
"What?"
"The difference. I'll pay it."
"No."
"Lilah—"
"I said no." I step away from him, needing distance. "I don't need your money."
"It's forty-two thousand dollars. You shouldn't have to raid your operating capital because the plumbing's worse than expected."
"It's my building. My problem. You don't have to buy me, Kane."
"I'm not trying to buy you."
"Aren't you though?" I hear the accusation in my own words. "Because five minutes ago you were asking if I'd invite you back here once I have a bed, and now you're offering to pay for the construction. So which is it, Kane? Do you want a place in my life or do you want to buy one?"
His face goes cold in a way I haven't seen since Palm Sunday.
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
I'm angrier than I should be. Angrier than the situation warrants.
"I offered because you need help," Kane says, voice clipped. "Not because I'm trying to manipulate you into letting me back into your bed."
"How am I supposed to know the difference?"
The question lingers in the air.
Kane's jaw works like he's physically restraining himself from saying something he'll regret.
"You invited me here," he says finally. "Why?"
Because I wanted to see you.
"I just wanted your opinion on the rebuild."
The lie tastes worse the second time.
Kane's face doesn't change. "Right. The rebuild. Got it." He pulls out his phone. "I'll have Stepan bring the car around."
"Kane—"
"You made yourself clear." He's already texting, not looking at me. "You needed advice about the building. I gave it. Now I'm leaving."
He heads for the stairs without waiting for a response.
I should let him go. Should take the easy out and pretend this whole thing was just about construction estimates and floor plans.
Instead, I follow him downstairs.
"Wait."
He stops at the front door, hand on the frame. Doesn't turn around.
"This is complicated for me, Kane." I gesture from myself to him. "Us."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Yes it does." I move closer. "Because every time I'm with you, I forget why I'm supposed to be keeping my distance.
And then something happens—you offer to pay for something or buy something or fix something—and I remember how safe I felt when you did that with me the first time around.
Then I remember that you spent months planning to take my building.
So yes, Kane, it is complicated. Because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. "
He turns to face me finally. "Is that what you think? That I'm keeping score? That every time I offer to help, it's because I expect something in return?"
"I don't know what to think."
"Then ask me."
"Fine." I meet his eyes. "Can you want a place in my life without buying it?"
I watch him absorb the question, watch his face shift from anger to something that looks like pain.
"I don't know how to prove I'm not my father," he says.
"I don't know how to offer you help without you seeing strings attached.
And I sure as hell don't know how to want you without every gesture becoming evidence I'm manipulating you.
" He shoves his hands in his pockets. "So yeah.
Maybe I can't. Maybe you're right to keep your distance. "
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?"
Outside, a horn beeps. Stepan.
Kane glances toward the car, then back at me. "You still want dinner tomorrow night?"
The invitation from yesterday. The one where I asked to pretend we were two people on a date instead of two people trying to figure out if they could trust each other.
I should say yes. Take the olive branch and try to salvage this before it gets worse.
"Maybe we should reschedule after all," I say instead. "I need to focus on work."
Emotion flashes in his eyes. Hurt, maybe. Or resignation.
"Right. Work."
He leaves without saying goodbye.
I stand in the middle of my gutted bakery and listen to the car pull away.