Zane ignored him. “Give me that one. I’ll get another.”
“I can pay for it.”
“It’s a drip-line stake, Daphne.”
“That sounds like something people say before invoices happen.”
His expression softened just enough to make my chest hurt. “No invoice.”
I handed over the broken piece.
Our fingers didn’t brush. Zane made sure of it.
That carefulness should’ve calmed me down. Instead, it made me want to climb directly out of my own skin.
Lunch happened under the pines with water bottles, Birdie’s cooler, Tyler’s loud complaints about healthy snacks, and Gus eating a sandwich wrapped in wax paper with the solemn focus of a man who had seen things. I had a protein bar from my tote and a peach Birdie pressed into my hand. “Nobody should look at fruit that suspiciously,” she said.
The peach was cold from the cooler and sweet enough to make me close my eyes on the first bite.
When I opened them, Zane was watching from beside the shed.
He wasn’t staring or leering. He was watching.
His gaze dropped to the peach juice on my thumb, then snapped back to my face.
Heat bloomed under my skin.
I lowered my hand very slowly and wiped my thumb on a napkin.
Birdie, who had missed nothing in her entire life, said, “Hot day.”
I bit into the peach again because my mouth needed a job.
The last hour of the shift dragged and flew at the same time. My arms and thighs were tired, but my nerves stayed lit. Every time Zane passed behind me, I felt the movement before I heard his boots. Every time he said my name, my stomach tightened. Every time I caught sight of Beargrass Lake through the trees, I thought about water on sun-warmed skin and Zane’s hands and the fact that I had never been in more trouble while technically following rules.
At one, Zane called the shift.
“Tools in,” he said. “Water before you leave.”
Tyler raised both arms. “I survived.”
Gus looked at him. “You’re still holding the rake wrong.”
“That feels less important now.”
“It’ll feel important when Zane notices.”
Tyler lowered the rake immediately.
I laughed and carried my gloves to the shed. The dim interior smelled like cedar dust, work leather, and hot plastic. I set the gloves on the bench, flexed my fingers, and tried not to think about how much of my day now revolved around not thinking about Zane.
He came in behind me with the clipboard.
The shed got smaller, at least everywhere my pulse could measure.
“Four today?” I asked.
“Four.” Zane wrote the date and hours in the neat boxes beside my name. “That puts you at twelve total.”
