Page 16 of Working for Him

I will. And the day after that. And every day until you believe I'm not going anywhere even if you get scared.

Rena:

You're very good at making me believe things might be different this time.

I stare at that message for a long time, feeling the weight of what she's trusting me with.

Me:

They will be. I promise.

Rena:

Don't make promises you can't keep, Wyatt.

Me:

I don't. Sleep well, Rena.

I set the phone down and lean back against the counter, feeling something deep in my chest that's been restless for longer than I care to admit.

This is real. This matters.

Tomorrow night, I'm going to show her exactly how much.

CHAPTER 9

Rena

Caleb picks me up at seven, and I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear for a date in a town I've never heard of.

"You went with the green dress," he says when I climb in, appreciation naked in his voice. "I was half convinced you'd show up in your hard hat out of spite."

"I considered it. Wanted to see if you'd still take me seriously."

"I'd take you seriously in a garbage bag, Rena."

"That's either the most romantic or the strangest thing anyone's said to me on a first date."

He drives forty minutes to a small place in Millbrook, white tablecloths, a wine list longer than the menu, and I spend most of dinner cataloging things about him I never had space to notice on a job site. The way he orders without hesitation, direct with the waiter the same way he's direct with everyone. The way he listens as if my answers actually matter, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

"Tell me something about you that has nothing to do with construction," he says over dessert.

"I used to want to be an architect. Before I realized I liked keeping people alive more than I liked drafting buildings that might kill them if someone cut corners."

"That tracks."

"What about you? Something that has nothing to do with concrete."

"I read more than people expect. Mostly history. There's something steadying about knowing everything eventually gets rebuilt on top of what came before it."

"That's annoyingly poetic for a man who spends his days yelling about rebar spacing."

"Don't tell the crew. I have a reputation to protect."

By the time we're driving back, something's loosened between us that wasn't there at the start of the night, some careful edge worn down by two hours of conversation that had nothing to do with permits or safety violations.

"Come back to mine," he says, when we hit the edge of Forge Creek. "No expectations. I just don't want the night to end yet."