25. Abilene
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Abilene
Friday
“Okay. Labels first. Always labels first. If you forget labels, you panic. If you panic, you drop things.” I slide another jar into the crate and mutter, “And if you drop things, you cry. We are not crying today.”
The kitchen is already half madness, half comfort. Honey jars line the counter in uneven ranks, catching the early morning light like they’re showing off.
Beeswax candles cool on parchment paper, their soft, sweet scent wrapping around me as a familiar blanket. Twine tangles around my wrist as I tie off another bundle of honey sticks, my fingers moving fast, practiced, just a little too tight.
I’m talking to myself because it helps. Because silence lets my thoughts wander, and I really don’t want them wandering today.
“Golden Meadow goes left. Creekside Bloom goes right. Forest Dawn… don’t mix them up this time, Abilene. Last week, you nearly sent lavender honey to a man who swore he was allergic to ‘anything floral.’”
I snort under my breath and reach for the chalkboard price sign, wiping it off with my sleeve. The house smells of honey and coffee grounds and damp wood, the haunting aftertaste of rain and smoke still faintly present if I let myself notice it too hard.
I don’t.
Today is about forward motion.
Market crates get stacked by the door. One for retail. One smaller, neater box set aside for Millie’s Mercantile. Uniform jars, clean labels, everything tidy and impersonal enough to sit nicely on someone else’s shelves.
I double-check the invoice, tap it straight against the table, and tuck it into an envelope.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Okay. We’re organized. We’re functional. We’re not spiraling.”
A crash outside makes me jump so hard I nearly knock over an entire row of jars.
“What the…?”
Metal scrapes against concrete. Something thuds. There’s the unmistakable sound of a toolbox lid being flung open, followed by a low, familiar voice muttering a curse that doesn’t belong to the morning birds.
I freeze.
Slowly, carefully, like the sound might vanish if I move too fast, I step toward the window and pull the curtain aside.
And there’s Jesse.
In my yard. With tools.
A lot of tools.
My heart flips in a way that is deeply unhelpful.
For a full three seconds, I just stand there staring out the window like my brain has blue-screened.
Jesse Murphy is in my yard. With a ladder and a tool belt.
And, oh no, he’s stretching.
This is not the morning my nervous system signed up for.
I yank the door open before I can overthink it, stepping out onto the porch with a hand braced on the frame. “What are you doing?”
He looks up, grinning, sunlight catching in his hair as if he planned it that way. “Good morning to you too, Honeybee.”
“You can’t just… show up with power tools,” I say, even as my heart does an annoying little flip.
“Sure I can,” he replies cheerfully. “I’m insured. Emotionally questionable, but insured.”
I glance at the ladder leaning against my house, then at the stack of lumber near the fence. “Jesse.”
“Before you say anything,” he cuts in, holding up a finger, “this is not a rescue mission. This is a neighborly assistance situation. Very official. Very aboveboard.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“I know,” he says easily. “That’s why it’s a surprise.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Somewhere in my chest, my heart loosens.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say instead, quieter now.
He shrugs, adjusting his tool belt. “The twins wanted to help. I told them you can’t let children near ladders or nails, so they’re supervising from the porch with snacks and very strong opinions.”
As if summoned, Caleb pops his head around the corner of the house. “Daddy! I found a rock shaped like Wyoming!”
“That’s great, buddy,” Jesse calls back. “Please don’t throw it.”
“I wasn’t going to!” Caleb yells indignantly. “I was going to name it.”
Eliza appears beside him. “I named mine Steve.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, one hand flying up to cover my mouth like that might contain it. Jesse watches me with that soft, pleased look he gets sometimes, like my laughter is a win he wasn’t expecting.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together, “I’ve got a loose gutter, a cracked step, and what looks like a very offended patch of siding. Figured I’d start where gravity’s most likely to ruin someone’s day.”
I blink at him. “You noticed all that… yesterday?”
“Hard not to,” he says lightly. “Your house wears its feelings on the outside.”
I feel that land somewhere tender.
“Oh,” I manage. “I… thank you.”
He ducks his head, suddenly very interested in checking the ladder’s stability. “Don’t get sappy. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“You showed up with tools at eight in the morning,” I point out. “The reputation ship has sailed.”
He snorts. “Fair.”
I hover there for another second, unsure what to do with my hands or my feelings, then clear my throat. “I can make coffee.”
His head snaps up. “Real coffee? Or emergency apocalypse coffee?”
“Real coffee,” I say defensively. “I only buy the good stuff.”
He grins. “Be still my heart.” His gaze flicks toward his truck. “I also brought your things from the cabin—I’ll carry them in while you make the coffee.”
I thank him before heading inside, moving on autopilot, grinding beans, filling the kettle, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Jesse Murphy brought over my stuff and is fixing my house like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
When I step back out with two mugs, he’s already up on the ladder, one arm braced as he tightens something overhead.
“Careful,” I call. “That ladder looks older than me.”
“Then it’s got wisdom,” he says. “I trust it.”
I hand him the mug, holding it while he climbs down a rung. Our fingers brush.
“This is good,” he says after a sip. “Very strong. ”
“Hey.”
“I respect that in a beverage.”
I lean against the porch rail, watching him work as he moves back to the ladder, easy and competent, like he belongs in this space. The sound of hammering is oddly soothing, and we fall into conversation without effort.
“So,” he says, tightening a bolt, “market day soon.”
“Yes,” I say. “Assuming I don’t forget labels again.”
He chuckles. “Kids were already planning their strategy. As if I’m going to let them ‘help.’”
My brow furrows. “Strategy?”
“Caleb wants to man the free samples. Eliza wants to ‘manage customer joy.’”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Extremely.”
I smile, warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the sun. “They can help me set up next time.”
His hammer pauses mid-swing. He glances down at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly shy. “If that’s okay.”
He nods once, decisive. “They’ll be thrilled.”
A comfortable quiet settles between us, filled with birdsong and the occasional commentary from the twins about Steve the Rock’s personality.
I realize, with a soft startle, that my shoulders have dropped. That I’m not braced for anything.
This isn’t awkward. Despite everything.
It’s… easy.
“Abilene?” Jesse says after a moment.
“Mm?”
“Next time something breaks,” he says carefully, “you can ask for help.”
I meet his gaze. There’s no pressure there. Just an offer.
“I know,” I say. And I do.
He smiles, climbs back up the ladder, and goes back to work while I sip my coffee and let myself feel… okay.
The problem is that my body remembers before my brain can stop it.
One second, I’m watching Jesse tighten a bolt on the porch railing, sunlight catching in his hair, the competence of him…
And the next, I’m not here anymore.
I’m pressed against the cabin hallway wall.
Hard.
Jesse’s mouth is on mine, hot and sure and relentless, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this. He’s done pretending he doesn’t want me.
His hand is braced beside my head, the other at my waist, fingers digging in just enough to say “don’t run.”
I remember the way my breath stuttered when he kissed me deeper.
The way my knees actually went weak.
The way his voice dropped when he said my name. I think it hurt him to hold back.
My stomach flips violently, and heat pools low, sudden and sharp. My thighs tense. My pulse skids.
I grip my coffee mug too hard and slosh liquid dangerously close to the rim.
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
I drag in a breath and try to anchor myself in the present: porch boards, morning air, children arguing about rock court outcomes.
But my memory is a traitor.
I remember the weight of him, close enough that I could feel every line of his body. Remember how my skin felt too tight, too sensitive, every nerve was already braced for more.
My body had decided for me that this was happening.
I shift, suddenly hyperaware of how Jesse’s voice sounds when he’s relaxed. Of how easily I could imagine it dropping again. Of how his hands look now, capable, the same hands that…
Stop. Stop thinking.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second.
When I open them, Jesse is looking at me.
“Everything okay?” he asks casually.
My mouth opens. My brain forgets how to supply words.
“Yes,” I say too fast. “Fine. Great. Just thinking.”
He smirks. “Dangerous hobby.”
You have no idea.
I laugh, a little breathless, and take another sip of coffee I absolutely do not need. My body is already humming, every inch of me tuned too tightly. A wire pulled to its limit.
The worst part?
It’s not just the memory of his mouth.
It’s the memory of how much I wanted it.
How easy it would’ve been to let go. How badly I wanted to stop thinking and just feel. How close I came to crossing a line I never cross, how my body had already sprinted past that line and waved back at my morals.
Because once I let myself want him like that, I wasn’t just risking a kiss. I was risking how quickly he’d started to feel like something permanent.
I just don’t know if me and Jesse can do permanent. I don’t even know if he wants to.
I glance away quickly.
Get it together, Abilene.
He clears his throat and goes back to work, climbing the ladder again, and the view should not be doing things to me. This should not be happening while children are present and tools are involved and daylight exists.
And yet.
I hug my mug to my chest as if it might restrain me and mutter under my breath, “You are a grown woman. You can survive a man fixing a gutter.”
“Say something?” Jesse calls.
“Nope,” I say brightly. “Just… aggressively affirming my sanity.”
He laughs, and the sound slides straight down my spine.
I’m so, so doomed.
And the most infuriating part?
Despite the heat, the memory, the way my body still hasn’t forgiven me for stopping that kiss…
It isn’t awkward. Not even a little.
Which somehow makes wanting him worse.