He wore faded jeans, work boots, and a sleeveless dark shirt that left his tattooed arms bare in the sun. He had one hand braced on a fence post and the other holding a pair of pliers. His light hair was damp at the temples, and a smear of dirt marked his forearm. He looked like the kind of man who could fix almost anything with enough time and enough stubbornness.
He looked up before I opened the door.
Even from the car, I saw him go still.
My chest pulled tight.
Then I got out.
Heat hit me first. Real heat, not office thermostat drama. It rose from the path, pressed through my blouse, and brought with it the smell of tomato leaves, dry soil, sun-warmed wood, and hose water.
Zane watched me walk through the gate in my pencil skirt and office flats.
His gaze dropped once to my shoes.
Under other circumstances, that would've been funny.
Under other circumstances, I might've said something about trusting sidewalks again.
Nothing funny came.
Zane set the pliers on the fence rail and started toward me. His expression was controlled, but his eyes were careful in a way that made my throat hurt.
"Daphne," he said. "You're early."
"I know."
"You're dressed for work."
"I came from work."
His gaze sharpened.
The first piece changed the air before I had time to be ready for it.
He stopped a few feet away. "Are you okay?"
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to be the woman who could make a joke, keep it light, and delay the worst of it until the garden was less bright and his eyes were less focused on my face.
I couldn't.
"No," I said. "I need to tell you something."
Zane's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. "Come to the shed."
The shed was empty when we stepped inside. No Birdie. No Gus. No Tyler. No clipboard ceremony. Just dim heat, old wood,the metal tang of tools, and the workbench where Zane had signed my hours while both of us pretended his hand near mine didn't change the size of the room.
I set my bag on the bench but didn't sit.
Zane stood near the door, leaving it open behind him. Sunlight cut along his shoulder and caught the ink on his arm. He didn't crowd me. He didn't cross his arms. He just waited.
That almost made it worse.
I pulled the folded note from my bag.
"My job is at Cascadia Land Partners," I said.
