Chapter 9 Alex
ALEX
Iclimbed the stairs, putting more pressure on them than they needed, just to test. Weight shift. Heel. Toe. Listen for complaints. Nothing.
They were fine. Good bones. Solid. Whoever built this place knew what they were doing. That mattered.
Behind me, New York panted. Not out of shape, but more like she was frustrated. Big difference. I could hear it in the way she breathed, sharp and clipped.
I didn’t care. I was here to assess. Prioritize. Fix what needed fixing first. Then I was gone. That was the plan.
“Where are you going?” New York called from behind me.
“To your bedroom.”
“Oh really? My bedroom?”
I stopped mid-step and turned. Her tone had changed, an edge where there hadn’t been one before. Defensive. Territorial. Like I’d just crossed a line she hadn’t realized was there until now.
“Dottie said your bedroom door fell off its hinges,” I said. “You’re about to have strangers walking through this place. You’ll want a door that closes. Don’t you think?”
Her mouth opened. Then closed. “Oh. Right.” Her cheeks went pink. The color climbed fast, catching in her cheekbones.
I noticed it anyway, the color in her cheeks, how it sharpened her face, made her eyes stand out brighter than they had a second ago.
Fuck.
I didn’t want to go there. This wasn’t the time. I didn’t have time for this.
“It’s the third floor,” she said. “The owner’s suite.”
I nodded. “Edna’s old room. I know.”
That surprised her. I saw it flicker across her face before she covered it.
I turned and kept going.
The third floor creaked more, but it was the honest creaking of old wood, not rot. The smell changed as I climbed, dust, lemon cleaner, something floral underneath. New York wasn’t just dumping money into this place. She was trying.
I reached the landing and stopped.
The door leaned against the wall like it had given up on life. One hinge was bent, the other stripped clean out of the frame. Amateur repair attempt at some point, wrong screws, wrong angle, impatience. I crouched and ran my fingers along the wood.
Fixable.
Behind me, New York hovered close enough that I could feel heat. And I felt her stiffen, like she was bracing for bad news.
“This was already loose,” I said. “Didn’t happen overnight.”
“I didn’t slam it,” she said immediately.
I glanced back, one eyebrow up.
“I didn’t,” she insisted. “I opened it and it just… died.”
“Died?”
She frowned at me. “You know what I mean,” she said, gesturing to the door with her hands. “It just fell like that.”
I huffed a breath. “You’re lucky it didn’t fall on you.” I pushed the door upright, testing the frame. It was warped slightly, but the studs were straight. Someone had overpainted without sanding. Typical.
“You’re going to need longer screws,” I told her. “And a shim.”
“I have a toolbox,” she said quickly. “Somewhere. Well, not mine. Edna’s probably or whoever used to take care of this place. I saw it when I was going through all the closets last night.”
I straightened and looked at her then. Really looked.
She was still flushed, her hair pulled back like she hadn’t planned on sweating today.
There was a smear of something on her cheek, ink, dust, maybe both.
She stood straight, her forearms tense and hands already half-curled like she was ready to grab whatever I needed. She looked like she wanted to work.
“Good,” I said. “Bring it.” I had my own toolbox in my SUV, but I figured it would go faster if she brought hers, and I wasn’t planning on staying long.
She blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She hesitated and then nodded before turning and moving fast with purpose.
I watched her go before I could stop myself. She moved like someone who refused to quit, like she was running on stubbornness, caffeine, and the absolute certainty that failure wasn’t an option, even if she didn’t know how she’d win yet.
I’d seen that look before on job sites and on people who stayed when things got hard. I respected that.
She came back a minute later, toolbox clanking against her leg and breathing a little heavier but her eyes sharp. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
I was suddenly aware of how close we were in the narrow hall—old wood, low ceiling, no space to step back without making it obvious.
“Hold the door steady,” I said. “It’s pretty heavy.”
“I got it.” She did as I instructed, her arms braced and jaw set.
And standing there, I watched her strain to keep it level with sweat at her temple, refusing to let go even when it clearly wasn’t easy. That was the moment she stopped being a quick fix.
It was the fact that she stayed, that she didn’t quit.
And that made her harder to walk away from.
I didn’t like that.
I set the toolbox down and flipped it open.
Inside was a collection of tools that looked like they’d survived several wars and at least one bad divorce.
A hammer with a chipped claw. A cordless old drill with the handle taped back together with duct tape.
A level so old the bubble barely bothered pretending to be accurate.
I exhaled through my nose. “These are… vintage.”
“That won’t be a problem. Right?” she asked.
I dug deeper. Bent nails. Stripped screws. A wrench that had no business being that small. Then I found it—a handful of long wood screws, mismatched but solid.
I paused. “These’ll do.”
“If you say so.” She shrugged, still bracing the door with her shoulder.
I took the screws and glanced at her stance, her arms locked, feet planted, and mouth set like she’d decided the door and gravity could both go to hell.
“Don’t move,” I said.
“I won’t.”
She said it like a challenge.
I lifted the door into position, testing the weight. It was heavier than it looked, old wood dense with years. She adjusted instantly, shifting her grip without being told to keep it level.
Competent.
That again.
I slid a shim into place and reached for the drill. As I leaned in, my forearm brushed hers, and I felt her warm, bare skin.
A brief, stupid spark.
I pulled back immediately, feeling her eyes on me.
Focus. Damnit.
I lined up the hinge, pressed the screw in place, and started driving it home. The drill whined, vibrating through my hand, through the door, through her arms.
She sucked in a breath but held steady. “Little more to the left.”
As I adjusted, our shoulders brushed against each other. There was no room not to with the narrow hallway and damn low ceiling. Old houses were built when people didn’t mind being closer to each other.
I told myself it was nothing. Just physics.
I finished the first screw followed by the second. The door settled into place, solid. Good.
“Shift your weight,” I instructed. “Slow.”
She did. The door stayed put.
I reached for the second hinge and knelt, bringing me level with her hands. They were clenched tightly around the edge of the door, her knuckles pale.
“You can relax, now,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m not dropping it,” she said. “Not after everything else today.”
I glanced up. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw still set, like letting go of anything right now was not an option.
I had no idea what that was about, but something in my chest shifted. Subtle. Fucking annoying.
“Be careful with your hands,” I said. “You’re a writer. You don’t want to sprain them.”
She frowned at me like I’d just spoken a foreign language.
I ignored it. Whatever that was, it meant nothing. Her hands weren’t my problem.
I drove the next screw in. The drill kicked slightly, and she adjusted again without thinking.
My hand brushed hers as I reached for the last screw, and our fingers grazed. Skin caught, warm and solid. This time, neither of us moved away immediately.
Too much awareness for a moment that should’ve meant nothing.
That was my line.
I straightened abruptly and finished the last screw, setting the drill down harder than necessary. “Okay. You can let go.”
She did, flexing her hands like they’d gone numb.
The door swung shut cleanly. No sag. No scrape. It clicked into place like it was supposed to. Solid and now fixed.
I stepped back, giving her space I hadn’t realized I’d taken.
She glanced at the door and then back at me, her gaze holding as she searched my face like she expected something else to be said. “Thank you.”
I nodded once and looked away, my jaw tightening for no good reason. “It’ll hold.” I grabbed the toolbox and straightened, rolling my shoulders like I could shake off whatever had just happened.
Fixed door. Job done. Move on.
“Before you start celebrating,” I said, already turning away, “you’ve got a leak.”
She blinked. “A leak?”
“Roof,” I said. “Third floor. Back corner. You can see the stain if you know where to look.”
Her eyes widened. “How do you—”
“I was up here last month,” I cut in. “After a storm. Dottie asked me to check the exterior.” I didn’t add that I’d gone up into the crawl space because something hadn’t smelled right. Or that I’d already filed the problem away in my head, cataloged it, priced it out.
That wasn’t my job anymore.
She pressed her lips together, processing. “Is it bad? Like very expensive bad? Or Band-Aid bad?”
“It’s not good,” I said, not knowing how else to answer that. “Not catastrophic, yet. But water always wins if you let it.”
She exhaled slowly and then nodded like she was bracing herself for a punch. “Right. And then there’s the mold thing with water. Can’t have guests breathing in mold.”
“And,” I added because apparently I hated myself, “your boiler’s acting up.”
Her head snapped up. “Yeah. Dottie mentioned that to me.”
“It’s cycling wrong,” I said. “Pressure’s off. You’ll lose heat if it drops again. Not a big deal now in July, but you should have it fixed.”
She rubbed her forehead. “Got it. Fix boiler before it gets cold.”
There it was again. That refusal to quit. That look like she’d already decided failure wasn’t an option, even if it killed her.
I hated it. I hated that I respected it.