CHAPTER 14
Quinn
My head throbs like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer—a metaphorical one, unlike the kind I threw at the wall last night.
I peel open my eyes and find myself twisted awkwardly on the three-seater couch, my spine sending sharp protest signals straight to my brain.
My mouth tastes like stale red wine and regret.
The soft morning light streaming through the curtains only exacerbates the flashes of last night starting to trickle in.
The hammer. The wall. The overwhelming panic.
Fuck. I’ve really done it this time.
I tighten my grip around the fluffy orange throw pillow clutched to my chest. My heart stutters. I have to fix this. Fast.
I drag myself upright, my head pounding harder with the movement, and grab my laptop off the coffee table. My bare feet hit the cold floorboards as I shuffle to the kitchen and slump onto a barstool. I open YouTube, desperate.
Four impossible-to-follow DIY videos later, my brain feels like it’s melting. I still have no idea how to plaster a wall, I’m hungover, my screen is too bright, and I don’t own any of the materials. Also, the nearest hardware store? Forty-five minutes away. Of course it is.
I guess in a way, I’m lucky that I’ve never had any walls to patch. Josh was many things, but at least he never got physical. He tore other parts of me down instead, quieter ones you can’t plaster over.
I close the lid and sigh, teetering on the edge of yet another breakdown I don’t have time for. I’ve exhausted all options except crying on the floor again when a knock at the front door saves me. I exhale in relief. Finally, my best friend has arrived to help clean up my mess.
Honestly, I have no idea what I’d do without Soph.
I quickly swallow some headache tablets before making my way to the door, tripping over the uneven floorboard as I go. I really need to fix that, but it’s somewhere near the bottom of the never-ending list of things to sort out in my life.
When I open the door, I freeze. Because standing on my doorstep, backlit by the early morning light, is the last person I expected to see on this Wednesday morning—or ever again, really.
“Hey,” Cole says, his green eyes shining. “Sophie mentioned you needed help with a faulty wall.” He offers an easy smile, like this isn’t the weirdest possible moment for a reunion.
I blink at him, trying to process what the hell is happening.
I glance down at my high school graduation shirt and shorts that barely cover my ass, then back up at him, trying not to drown in embarrassment.
I step back, holding the door open wider. “Oh, um, yeah. Hey.” The words stumble out, less friendly than I’d hoped. I’m too thrown to sound normal.
“Are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowing.
“I thought you were Sophie,” I say, still blinking profusely. “Did she send you over to help?”
“Ah. Something like that. I guess she wanted it to be a surprise?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, looking sheepish now. “I can head off if it’s weird.”
“No!” I blurt. “I mean no, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting… you.”
He nods, letting the silence settle for a beat.
“Um… you want to come in?”
“Only if you’re sure.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks for coming to help.” I finally manage a smile, aiming to convince both of us that this is fine, everything is fine.
Reluctantly, I lead him through the organised chaos of my house, instantly self-conscious.
It’s not spotless, but it’s not a disaster either, though the ten empty water bottles and laundry mountain beg to differ.
It’s better than a six months ago, when I could barely get out of bed.
Some days, a shower felt like a win. Thank God, I worked in the warehouse of a retail company back then, no customers, just boxes and silence.
But I was constantly one sick day away from getting fired, and apparently crying on your lunch break isn’t considered professional.
Everything felt heavy, like I was moving through mud.
I didn’t know who I was, or how I was meant to keep going.
I’d hoped that if Cole ever saw me again, I wouldn’t be in this state: unbrushed hair, old school jersey, caught completely off guard.
God, I wish I’d at least fit in a shower.
“Can you show me what needs fixing?” Cole asks as we walk down the hallway. I shut the guest room door as we pass, hiding the chaos from last night.
“Sure. But no judgment. I, um… slipped, and the hammer found its way into the wall.”
I stop outside the bedroom door, Cole behind me, and brace myself for the damage inside. When I open it and we step through, I know I’ve really fucked up.
God, it looks worse in daylight. I’d avoided it all morning, but now I can’t ignore the gaping, uneven hole with plaster hanging like limp paper.
Cole gives me a curious smile. “Of course, it happens all the time,” he teases. “You actually did a decent job of it.”
“It’s okay if you can’t help. I was going to try… somehow,” I mutter, embarrassed. I hate feeling helpless.
How the hell am I supposed to renovate an entire house when I can’t even patch a wall?
“I’m happy to. And it’s really not that bad. I’ve got what we need in my truck. Anything else you want me to take a look at while I’m here?”
“How about the whole house?” I joke, but my voice comes out flatter than I intended.
He studies me for a beat. “Hey… are you okay?”
I almost lie. Almost say I’m fine.
“No, actually. I’m not.”
I drag my eyes away from his and stare at the wall.
“I’ve got three months to get this place ready for auction.
No money. No job. Zero experience. Meanwhile, my ex-fiancé’s off to Europe for three months with his new girlfriend,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to hide the wine stain.
“And if I don’t get this place ready in time, I won’t get the loan for my interior design business. ”
Cole’s expression shifts. He blinks, stunned, probably still trying to process the word fiancé.
I don’t care. Let it land. Better he knows now than later.
It’s not the breakup that still gets me.
It’s everything he did to me while we were together.
The cheating. The gaslighting. The slow erosion of who I was until I barely recognised myself.
I don’t miss him—I miss feeling like I could trust my own instincts.
“Fuck, Quinn… you don’t deserve that.”
He looks back at the wall, then at me. “Let me help. Honestly, from what I’ve seen, the house doesn’t look that bad.”
“But you’ve got your own thing going on—your expansion, the bar.”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to. Stay here. I’ll grab my tools.”
Before I can argue, he’s out the door.
I let out a breath. The kind you don’t know you’ve been holding. My shoulders drop, and I press a hand to my chest, grounding myself in the moment. His offer is kind. Unexpected. Maybe this house doesn’t need a miracle, just a few fresh coats of paint and someone who knows what they’re doing.
While he’s gone, I walk a few steps to my cupboard to change, torn between shorts and leggings. I settle on leggings, as they’re comfortable and less likely to give the wrong impression. I pull them on quickly from my floordrobe. I don’t want Cole thinking Sophie sent him here to set something up.
… She better not have.
I’ve just finished changing into a loose white top when Cole walks back in, balancing a mountain of tools like it weighs nothing.
Forearms taut beneath rolled-up sleeves, he drops a heavy bucket of pale white goop, just like the stuff I saw in those YouTube videos, then sets down a worn tool belt with a practiced kind of ease.
“Do you have an old towel we can use to protect the floor?”
I glance down at the scratched, uneven floorboards and laugh. “These floors haven’t seen better days in about twenty years.”
He chuckles too. “I’ve seen worse. Still, plastering’s messy. I’ll be careful.”
“If you say so,” I say, stepping aside to give him space in the tiny room. “Can I help?” I ask tentatively. I don’t know the first thing about walls but I want to know. I’m not letting anyone else leave me stuck like this again.
Josh made me feel useless. I’m done with that feeling.
“It’ll go quicker with two people,” Cole replies, smiling as he starts mixing the goopy stuff. His sleeves are pushed up now, forearms flexing as he works. My brain short-circuits slightly.
“So… how’ve you been?” I ask, trying to play it cool. “Since the bar?”
“Good. Busy. Work’s full-on. You?”
“I’ve been busy too,” I reply. “Sorry again for running out.”
“I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.” He glances at his kit. “Can you pass me the spreader?”
I hand him the wrong tool, of course. “This one?”
He smiles as he reaches over to correct me, and his hand brushes my thigh. It’s the briefest contact, but it sends heat to my cheeks. My heart gives a traitorous thud. A moment later, his eyes flick to my mouth, and then he clears his throat and turns back to the wall.
“So you and Chad are brothers?” I ask, genuinely curious and not quite sure how small talk works.
“Yeah, unfortunately we are. How did you know?”
Ugh, he’s got me there. How do I explain that we tried to find him on socials like stalkers?
“Um, Sophie told me. I think she said a random article popped up on her phone or something,” I say, knowing full well how it sounds. But it’s the best I can come up with while trying not to get distracted by the way his shirt clings to his back as he leans down and starts preparing his toolkit.
He chuckles, a knowing edge to his voice that says he definitely doesn’t buy it. “What else did she tell you?”
“Just a bit about your father. I’m sorry to hear about Markus. But what does Chad have to do with the bar if you’re the only one working on it?”
He hesitates.
“I owed Markus. He helped raise me after I lost my dad. My mum married him, and he was… a good man. When he died, he left me part of the bar in his will, but only on the condition that Chad and I work together to renovate and reopen it.”
“That’s a big ask. And not easy, working with someone like Chad. Did Markus give you a timeline?”
“We’ve got about three months to finish the venue. I pushed to open the bar early a few weeks ago to test the crowd. But the expansion will take longer. And now Chad’s slept with our designer, so I’m back to square one hiring someone new.”
“That really sucks,” I say, remembering what he shared about Chad’s womanising tendencies. “Still, I’m glad you came over and saved me from having to watch Chad paw all over Sophie.”
I laugh, but Cole doesn’t. His attention is fixed on the wall.
“That’s not good,” he mutters.
“What’s not good? Meeting us at the bar?”
“This framing is rotted. Completely.” He presses his hand to the surface.
“And no, meeting you girls was the highlight of my night,” he adds, his tone light.
Still, the words land heavier than expected, and my cheeks heat as I pretend to focus on the crumbling wall instead of the way his compliment lingers.
I groan. “Ugh, what do I do?”
“Come here.” He taps a section of the wall. When I shuffle closer, the wood beneath his finger crumbles.
“How attached to this wall are you?” he asks.
“Considering I almost lit the house on fire twelve hours ago? I’d say not very.” Being this close to him again sends a flutter through my chest. But when I look at the rot, I sober.
“Let’s take it down,” Cole says. “I’d rather do it properly than patch it and have it collapse later. I’ll replace the framing, add new plasterboard—do it right.”
He walks across to the far side, tapping the wall. I follow him to the en suite, hoping this isn’t a bigger disaster.
“What are the chances every wall’s like this?” I ask.
“Do you have a building report?” he replies, crouching to inspect the sink plumbing. God, there’s something unfairly attractive about a man doing competent things with tools.
“Um… no. I trusted my ex. So if it’s missing, he probably didn’t even bother. Am I screwed?”
I hate how naive I sound. But I also hate that I wasn’t. I was just worn down after years of believing that I couldn’t trust myself.
“Hey,” he says gently. “You’re not alone in this. It won’t take long, but I have to duck out and get some supplies. I’ll be back by lunch, and I’ve got the time today.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I breathe out. And before I can stop myself, I add, “I think I might even have another way to thank you.”
The thought comes to me in a rush, unfiltered and tumbling from my lips before I can stop it.