Chapter 4
FOUR
Goodbye – The Sundays
What he did with her in the privacy of his mind was another matter entirely.
The trouble was, for a split second, she’d looked at him like she remembered everything.
The reckless, uncertain boy he’d been and that brief but electric kiss.
A version of himself—and a memory—he’d left behind for a reason.
However, now she was the vulnerable one, and that stirred something in him he’d thought years of careful avoidance had stripped away.
What the hell was he supposed to call this—wanting to protect her and kiss her senseless in the same breath?
Unable to untangle that particular puzzle, he’d dragged himself to the mill that morning, determined to bury the absurd tangle of tenderness and want beneath something useful. Journalism, preferably.
Instead, he’d wound up doing demolition.
Which worked, too.
Promise Cotton was nearly unrecognizable from the shuttered ruin it had been the last time he’d seen it.
The old brickwork still bore scars, but the vast space throbbed with life—hammers cracking, saws whining, the dull thud of lumber hitting concrete.
A fall breeze drifted through the open loading doors, but sweat still gathered along Dallas’s spine as he awkwardly crouched beside a short stack of two-by-fours and nudged them into alignment.
He felt damp, dusty, grit working into every crease.
His T-shirt clung to his shoulder blades, and fine dust coated his glasses.
The air smelled like heart pine and hot metal.
It was bracing, in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
Working shoulder to shoulder with his family, for one of the few times in his life.
Justin, an architect by trade and artist at heart, was across the room reviewing blueprints, a pencil tucked behind one ear like he’d been born with it.
Campbell was perched on the desk he’d shoved against the wall, wearing the grim patience of a landlord who’d bet big on his own vision.
And Ransom, the eldest and self-appointed lead, fresh off a construction management project in New York, barked orders from atop a sawhorse, determined not to let the venture go sideways.
Amazingly, family was the one thing pulling them together and keeping the whole gamble from flying apart.
Around them, the younger True brigade tore through the place like caffeinated gremlins.
Luca sprinted past with a measuring tape dragging behind him like a tail, shouting something about square footage, while Kit tried to climb a stack of drywall and Campbell yelled at him to get down unless he wanted to become part of the foundation. Dallas kind of loved the chaos.
“This phase’ll be done in two months if people quit improvising,” Ransom shouted, glaring at Dallas, which was unfair, given that he’d only improvised twice today—and saving a length of original molding for Gabi’s coffee bar had been a good call.
Was he not allowed to be creative?
“Two months?” Campbell echoed, wiping a bead of sweat from his jaw with his shoulder. “We’ll be lucky if we finish in three. I was hoping to have the final shots in the darkroom before the holidays, so we could use them in the marketing spreads.”
Justin didn’t look up from the blueprints. “We promised tenants a winter move-in. Retail on the ground floor, residential upstairs. We’re already behind on framing.”
“And demo,” Ransom muttered.
“And plumbing,” Dallas added under his breath, glancing at the exposed pipes.
“And patience!” Luca shouted as he tore past again, the wisest of them all.
Dallas blew a strand of damp hair off his brow, his breath coming thin from exertion—and from trying to figure out where the hell he fit in any of this.
His ankle throbbed, and he was minutes from needing to get off it again.
He hadn’t planned to help with construction—he’d come to snag quotes and background for the story Halpern wanted—but Justin had handed him a hammer before he could invent an excuse to leave.
Another trap. His brother was a genius at setting them.
Though he didn’t mind the labor. His kind of reporting was physically grueling even on a good day, and he’d decided years ago that being worn out was easier than being wound up.
And yet, the longer he stayed, the more his old dreams for this town and these people came into focus, sharp as one of Campbell’s photographs. They’d talked about renovating the mill back in the day, but now Dallas was part of it. Whatever the fuck that meant.
The thought had barely landed when Gabi Wilder stepped through the open loading door and scattered every other one in his head. Sunlight poured in behind her, wrapping her in a bright, breath-stealing glow.
Her hair was piled into a messy bun, probably the kind she wore while baking.
Before he could stop it, a fantasy flashed through him: his fingers sinking into flour-dusted strands, his mouth finding hers as he pressed her beneath him, sugar on his lips, her taste in his mouth.
Even in a ratty flannel shirt layered over a tee and faded jeans, she carried an effortless elegance that sent a jolt of lust straight through him.
Apparently, he had a thing for classy women, because he blanked on what he was doing, nearly smashing his fingers with the hammer.
Christ. One look at her and his brain short-circuited.
Gabi’s son, Sam, trailed behind, dark hair and boyish bounce, doing a little dance around her like he couldn’t decide which direction to run in first. Luca and Kit slowed at the sight of him, then immediately tried to lure him toward whatever trouble they had brewing around a stack of scrap wood.
Gabi rested a hand on his shoulder, nerves flickering in the tight pinch around her eyes.
Dallas figured she was here to talk business with Campbell and had no one to watch Sam while she handled it.
He pushed gracelessly to his feet, bracing himself against a nearby support beam as she took in the scene.
Heat flickered through him when her gaze lingered a beat too long before darting away—too quickly to be casual.
Reaching for his crutches, he closed his hands around the grips and settled the pads beneath his arms, picturing the things he could do to her.
And the sounds she’d make while he did them.
Before desire could land him in trouble, Sam mercifully raced over, zeroing in on his crutches and poking at them with fearless curiosity.
“Whoa,” Dallas said with a laugh, steadying himself. “These are my magic sticks.”
“I’m Sam,” the boy said, delighted, still staring at his crutches.
Dallas lowered himself onto a nearby stack of lumber, his ankle protesting, bringing them nearly eye to eye. “What are you working on?” he asked, gesturing to the scrap of blueprint Sam clutched in his fist.
Sam held it up like a trophy. “Mr. Ransom said I get to help with ‘dimensions,’ whatever those are. Numbers, I bet. I like math at school, but I’m only nine, so it’s pretty boring still. Not like the stuff I’ll get in middle school. Real math and everything.”
“I’m no good at math myself. It was my least favorite subject in school.” Dallas shot a glance at Ransom, who shrugged as if to say, Sure, whatever keeps him busy. Tapping the blueprint, he said, “Having this makes you the most important guy here, unless you wanna help me locate studs.”
Sam nodded so eagerly his hair flopped over one eye.
Dallas laughed, relieved to have something concrete to focus on.
“See those lines on the floor? They show where the new walls are going. Since I can’t do everything with a busted ankle, your job is to be my assistant.
I’ll handle the tape, and when I tell you where, you make an X.
” He tossed a fat piece of chalk to Sam, impressed when the kid caught it on the first try.
Beaming, Sam raced toward the first spot, all business now that he had a mission.
Gabi crossed to them, her attention shifting between her son and Campbell. Rising gingerly to his feet, Dallas settled onto his crutches and gave her a reassuring nod. “Go,” he said, tipping his chin toward Campbell. “I’ll keep your little guy occupied.”
She smiled, a relieved curve of near-perfect lips. She was more petite than he’d recalled, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. “I’m guessing you came to do a story,” she said, nudging a scrap of lumber with the toe of her Reebok. “And got stuck doing this instead.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I must be an easy sell.”
And because life had a sense of humor, his T-shirt rode up as he shifted, baring a strip of his belly above his waistband. Her gaze dipped. Cool air skimmed the exposed skin, but it felt more like the drag of her fingertips.
Dallas didn’t make a move unless he was reasonably sure she’d meet him halfway.
Not with Gabi. But her gaze lingered on the bare strip of his stomach, her chest lifting on a stolen breath.
Up close, he remembered that her eyes never stayed one color—brown in shadow, almost gold when the light caught them.
Years had passed. Their lives had split apart and rebuilt themselves without the other.
Didn’t matter. He still wanted her.
Maybe more than he had any business wanting anyone.
Dallas cleared his throat and shifted his weight, feeling foolish but driven by some dumb male instinct at this point.
“If you’re around tomorrow,” he said, aiming for casual and coming out somewhere closer to hopeful, which, frankly, sucked, “we could meet for coffee at the Grill. I’m planning on working there again. ”
Subtle. Maybe too subtle?
Uncertainty flickered in Gabi’s eyes before she tucked it neatly away and stepped around the offer like it might bite.