Nic tilted his head. “Guess I should’ve come out of the womb holding a hammer—might’ve earned your respect by now.”
Martin shrugged. “I’m just saying. There’s a difference between building something and thinking you know how it should all go together.”
Nic’s grin went lopsided, sharp as the chisel in his belt. “And there’s a difference between experience and just being around a long time.”
That landed harder. The laughter stilled. Brandon glanced between them, biting back a whistle.
Martin’s jaw moved like he wanted to speak again, but Isaac cut in before he could. Not with a reprimand, just a low, almost careless line.
“Mortar’s drying. We’ll talk more with hands than mouths this afternoon.”
Nic grinned into the distance, but his chest stayed tight. The tension clung to his ribs like dust that wouldn’t brush off.
Nic slipped away before the crew packed up, claiming he had to check the measurements for tomorrow’s lumber delivery. He ducked behind a row of hedges, tugged off his overshirt and shook out the dust, fingers raking through his hair. He scuffed his boots on the grass, wiped sweat from his neck with the cleaner side of his sleeve, and muttered a quiet curse.
He still smelled like pine shavings and sweat, his skin and hair covered in lime dust. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a change of clothes?
The path through the White Villa’s garden wrapped through marble planters and bronze statues of forgotten heroes. Nic stayed to the side, where the stone turned to gravel. His boots crunched with every step—a reminder he couldn’t scrub off.
He leaned against a sun-warmed column just outside the dance hall, heart drumming too fast. The stained glass above the door flickered with late afternoon light. From inside came the faint rhythm of string music and soft feet—her feet, maybe. Helen always moved like she was half-spun from mist and moonlight, even when she was tired or cross.
It was just the way she looked when she danced. The way her collar slipped just slightly, the skin at her throat soft and flushed. Just that. But that didn’t explain why he’d ditched the crew early or why his palms were sweating now.
He hated waiting like this. Hated the way it made him feel—hopeful, twitchy, like he’d left some part of himself exposed. Like a stray looking for scraps.
Voices rang out suddenly from down the path—low and smooth, men’s laughter chasing the end of some joke. Nic straightened, pulling his overshirt back on.
Three stewards emerged from the west wing in polished shoes and silken cuffs, sleeves rolled neatly to their elbows. Oneof them paused to relight a pipe, then passed it to the others. Nic recognized the tall one in the center instantly, Steward Jacob, Helen’s father.
Hair just beginning to silver, still parted sharp as a blade. His waistcoat was dove gray, not a thread out of place. His signet glinted at the wrist, catching the sun like it was meant to blind.
Nic cleared his throat and nodded with a small smile.
“Good afternoon, Steward Jacob,” he said, straightening without thinking. “Lovely day.”
Jacob glanced at him—barely. Just enough to register him like one might a stain on a rug.
“Hmm,” Jacob said. Then, without breaking stride, he turned to the man beside him. “You’d think with all the taxes they collect, they could afford proper uniforms for the help.”
The stewards chuckled, a low, muffled sound. The gravel under Nic’s boots felt suddenly harder than ever.
He didn’t respond. Just dropped his gaze and rolled his shoulders back, forcing the tension from them. His teeth ached from clenching.
He had charm. Wit. A killer jawline.
He could talk circles around half those stewards and build a house from nothing but rot and rain.
But none of that seemed to count for much when his boots tracked sawdust into marble corridors.
To them, he’d always be someone who didn’t belong—someone who came in through the servant’s door and left dust behind.
An hour passed before the doors creaked open and a rush of girls spilled out onto the path, satin slippers scuffing the stone, voices rising like birds startled from a tree.
Nic had nearly convinced himself she wouldn’t come. That maybe she’d slipped out another way. That maybe she’d changed her mind.
Then he sawher.
Helen stepped into the golden light, flushed and breathless, hair pulled back with strands slipping loose around her temples. She looked lit from within—like the dancing hadn’t tired her at all but fed her, warmed her from the inside out.
