I dress in a light olive T-shirt and my favorite loose jeans, the only pair that doesn’t irritate my skin today. Everything else feels like sandpaper.
Back in the living room, I tug the hoodie over my head again. Instantly calmer.
It’s ridiculous. I barely know Levi Maddox, and yet his scent has become my safe zone.
I shove the thought aside and call Norah.
“Morning, Red,” she chirps. I hear the flutter of bags and the familiar clang of her shop’s bell in the background. “I’m at the flower shop setting up. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Mostly. I was wondering—do you know anyone who could maybe look at the café? The structure? I want to know what can be saved.”
“Of course. Pack Built’s still the best in town. Jude and Ryker are working on the Fernbridge cabins this week, but I can call Jude. See when they’re free.”
I hesitate. “You sure that’s okay? Aren’t they… kind of close with Dorian?”
She pauses, just for a second. “Used to be. Don’t worry. I don’t let that man color my perception of his friends. Meet me there?”
I grab my bag and slip into my sneakers. “On my way.”
Pack Built’s office is a converted barn on the south edge of Fox Hollow, the kind of place that looks like it smells of cedar shavings and engine grease—and probably does.
Jude answers the door, all wire-frame glasses and shy smile, juggling a clipboard and a cell phone. Ryker appears behind him, bearded and flannel-clad like a walking lumberjack fantasy.
“Ladies,” Ryker says with a nod. “You’re early. I like that.”
Norah grins. “Wren’s thinking of fixing up her grandma’s café.”
“Fox and Fern?” Jude’s eyebrows lift. “We wondered if someone’d try to reopen it.”
“I just want to know if it’s salvageable,” I say quickly. “After the fire.”
“Totally doable,” Ryker says. “We’re doing a roofing job at Fernbridge right now—old romantic cabins near the trailhead—but we can squeeze in a walk-through tomorrow.”
“Fernbridge is still standing?” I blink. “I thought the blight last spring ruined half the trail.”
Jude chuckles. “Elias whipped it back into shape. He’s the caretaker; he practically lives there.”
I glance at Norah and laugh. “Remember when we played truth or dare in those woods?”
Norah snorts. “I dared you to kiss Grady Abbott.”
“And I did. He ran away.”
“Because you bit him.”
I groan. “He tasted like orange Tic Tacs.”
We’re both laughing when we step out into the sun, the barn door clicking shut behind us.
“Thanks for coming with,” I say.
Norah heads back to the flower shop, and I detour toward the café, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair piled into a bun that’s more stubborn than stylish. It’s hotter today, or maybe I’m running a low fever.
I push open the back door and grimace at the smell—ash, old sugar, and something sharp that reminds me of melted plastic. I kick off my sneakers and step carefully over the buckled tile, surveying the damage.
Some smoke up the back wall. The counter’s warped and split in one corner. Most of the baking equipment is ruined.
I change into a tank top and cutoff shorts from my emergency laundry bag and set to work. Sweeping, clearing fallen boards, piling ruined trays into the trash bins I’ve dragged in from out back.
