He nods once and walks across the hall to scoop Maisie away.
I stay by the table, staring at the blueprint, but my mind isn’t on structural supports anymore.
We both admitted it.
We both like Norah.
Now what?
Whatever comes next, I know one thing—I’m not stepping back. And neither is he.
And the air between us finally feels honest.
I haul the last black trash bag off the porch and carry it down the gravel path to the bins by the fence.
I spent the whole day working with Jude and Chase at the hall. My muscles ache in a way I actually like, the kind that distracts a man from the thoughts he doesn’t want to sit with.
But the thoughts still manage to slide in. Soft ones. Reckless ones.
Norah.
The memory of her whispering half-formed words into my throat last night crawls under my skin again.
Even drunk, she looked at me like she wanted something she wasn’t supposed to want. Even drunk, she leaned into me like I was something she trusted.
I shove the bag down into the bin. My palms sting. Good. A little sting won’t kill me.
The crunch of tires on gravel drags my head up.
A white hatchback rolls into the driveway, headlights brushing over the yard before dimming. The engine ticks as it shuts off. Then the door opens.
She steps out.
Norah’s wearing a soft ivory sweater, leggings, and brown boots lined in faux fur. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail that swings once when she shuts the door with her hip.
She’s got a big tote bag slung over one shoulder, so full that the straps strain against the fabric. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, or maybe from something else.
She freezes when she spots me by the trash bins. For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then she lifts a hand. “Hey.”
Her voice has that gentle rasp she gets in the evenings. Makes something low in my chest tighten.
I straighten. “Hey.”
She holds up the tote bag like it’s a shield. “I’m here for Maisie.”
“I heard.” My tone lands a little rougher than I intend, but I don’t soften it. “Have a good night.”
She starts to step past me toward Jude’s porch, but then: “Wait.”
I stop.
She swallows, her breath lifting her shoulders. “I… wanted to thank you. For last night.”
I rub my thumb against the metal edge of the bin. “You don’t need to do that.”
“No, I do.” She takes a cautious step toward me. “You stayed. You helped me. You were there. I was a mess, and you?—”
