“Twelve.” I let out a breath. “Only eight left.”
“Two shifts if you stay with fours.”
The math should’ve made me happy.
Instead, my chest tightened.
Only eight hours left meant I was closer to being done with the P-Patch, done with the sign-in sheets, done with dirt under my nails and Birdie’s earrings and Tyler’s compost commentary and Gus’s dry wisdom. Closer to being done with Zane.
He handed me the pen. “Initial here.”
I bent over the clipboard and signed. My hand only shook a little.
Zane noticed.
“You’re tired,” he said.
“I’m victorious.”
“You’re both.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s accurate.”
I looked up.
He was close enough that I could see a streak of dust near his jaw and the pulse beating at the side of his throat. The sun cut across the shed doorway behind him, catching the worn edge of his shirt and the ink winding down his arm. His expression stayed controlled, but his eyes had gone darker, fixed on mine with the kind of attention that made every inch of my skin aware of being skin.
Outside, Birdie called, “I’m taking Tyler and Gus with me before the compost starts giving legal advice.”
Tyler said, “It had one good point.”
Gus said, “Get in the truck, kid.”
Footsteps moved away. Voices faded toward the gate. A truck door opened, then shut. Tyler’s laugh drifted back through the sun.
Then the P-Patch went quiet.
Zane hung the clipboard on its hook.
I should’ve picked up my tote.
I didn’t.
His hand stayed on the clipboard for a second before he let go. “You’re signed out.”
“I know.”
His gaze sharpened.
The air in the shed changed even though he didn’t move closer. He didn’t move away either, and I swallowed. “Is Beargrass really that close?”
Zane’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
I glanced toward the doorway, where sunlight burned white over the path. “I’ve lived here forever and I’ve barely seen it from anywhere except the public beach.”
“My access isn’t the public side.”
