“There it is.”
“I’m trying to give you options before people stop asking nicely.”
I looked toward the gate where Daphne had left. Four hours remained on her sheet. One more shift, and she’d be done with the court side of this place.
I wasn’t done with her.
I also wasn’t letting Fletcher put his hands on the one thing he’d been circling all week.
“You can stop asking now,” I said.
“That’s not how this works.”
“It works that way with me.”
Fletcher sighed. “Fine. Then I’ll stop asking.”
I stopped walking.
“That better mean what it sounds like,” I said.
“It means you don’t get to pretend your no ends this for everyone else.”
“Fletcher.”
“Sleep on it, little brother.”
I turned back toward the south fence, toward the pines, toward the flash of blue water he kept talking about like it belonged to him.
“My answer won’t change by morning,” I said.
“Then maybe your morning will.”
The call went dead.
I stood at the edge of the garden with Daphne’s work drying dark in the soil, my brother’s threat cooling against my ear, and Beargrass Lake bright through the trees.
Then I closed my hand around the phone and looked at the water, done letting Fletcher decide what I kept.
Chapter Five
The Cascadia Land Partners copier jammed before nine, which felt unfair for a machine that had spent its entire life indoors.
I stood in the workroom in a cream blouse, black pencil skirt, and flats that had never met garden soil, holding the copier drawer open with one hand while a warm sheet of paper sagged over the roller like it had lost the will to participate in capitalism.
Cold office air blew against the back of my neck. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere beyond the frosted glass wall, phones rang in tidy little bursts, keyboards clicked, and someone's citrus hand lotion fought bravely against the permanent smell of toner and expensive coffee.
Yesterday, I'd been on my knees beside Zane McCrae in the July heat, arguing with irrigation parts while sweat ran down my spine and he handed me water like hydration was a legal requirement.
Today, I was back where I belonged.
Allegedly.
The copier beeped at me.
"I know," I told it. "I'm disappointed in both of us."
Amanda Morrison appeared in the doorway with a stack of folders against one hip and her dark hair clipped up in the kind of twist that looked effortless only because she'd probably used twelve pins and actual skill. Her gaze dropped to my hand inside the machine.
