I nod. “And Denzel and Ridge’s designs will probably need structural sign-off. We’ll have to get the inspector from Ashfield to approve any wall removal.”
“You handle that part,” he says. “I’ll manage the foundation.”
“Deal.”
The conversation fades back into the rhythm of the fire. I stretch my legs, crossing my ankles on the rug. “You grilling tonight or am I?”
“You are. You owe me from last time.”
I groan. “You burned the steaks.”
“You distracted me.”
“I asked a question about grout.”
He grins, the first real one of the night. “Exactly.”
I push myself up, heading to the kitchen. The fridge hums softly, full of the basics—beer, eggs, leftover chili, and a tray ofsteaks he picked up from Mason’s Butcher. I grab them, pull out the cast-iron pan, and get the fire going in the stove.
The smell of searing meat fills the room, blending with the smoke from the hearth. It smells like home. Like winter.
Like something that might almost heal.
Behind me, Ryker lowers the TV volume and flips through the folder of printouts the mayor sent minutes ago. The papers rustle, and I hear the low sigh he makes when something frustrates him.
“They’re over-designing,” he mutters. “All glass and steel in a snow zone. Idiots.”
“You’ll fix it,” I say, flipping the steaks. “You always do.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the scrape of his pen as he starts marking up the page. He’s already rewriting the structure in his head, finding the faults, replacing them with something stronger.
When I finish, I plate the food and hand him one. We eat at the coffee table, beer bottles between us, firelight throwing that warm gold over everything.
After a while, I glance again at the picture of us in front of the old house, Claire in the middle, sunlight cutting through her hair.
“She’d want you to take it,” I say quietly. “The project. She’d want you to build it right.”
He doesn’t look up. “Maybe.”
“She would.”
Ryker’s eyes flicker toward the photo again, then back to his plate. “You think we ever stop missing them?”
“No,” I answer. “We just build around it.”
The fire pops, throwing sparks. He nods once, and that’s enough.
CHAPTER FIVE
Norah
The car smellslike cinnamon and bananas. Wren baked three loaves last night because she couldn’t sleep.
I balance one of them on my lap while the bouquet I made rests in a big mason jar at my feet. The flowers are winter blooms—anemones, hellebores, sprigs of rosemary, and cedar. I wanted something that looked alive even in cold weather.
“Still sure about this?” Wren asks, her voice soft but steady as she turns onto the long road leading to the James property. The snow has already started to fall again, blurring the edges of the pines. “You don’t have to do this today.”
I look out the window. The road winds up through the ridge, past the frozen creek and the rows of old apple trees that used to belong to the James family orchard. “If I don’t do it now,” I say, “I’ll keep finding excuses.”
