Page 3 of The Fire Line

A man rounded the corner with a cedar fence post balanced across one shoulder.

Harrison Shaw. It had to be.

He looked enough like Evan for the relationship to register, but the similarities ended quickly. Harris was taller by several inches and carried more weight through his chest and shoulders, the kind of strength shaped by years of physical labor rather than any deliberate interest in acquiring it. His shirt was dark with sweat between the shoulder blades, and dust covered his boots and the lower legs of his jeans.

He moved with an economy that made everyone else in the yard seem vaguely overcommitted. As he crossed toward them, the details resolved—short dark-blond hair, scruff along a hard jaw, a thin scar over the bridge of a straight nose, deep-set blue eyes, and a mouth unexpectedly full at the lower lip.

Well. That was inconvenient.

The camera was going to love him, and Harris would almost certainly consider that an accusation. Jay watched him cover the yard (not staring, just assessing—which a director was professionally obligated to do).

Harris slid the post into the bed of a work truck and joined them. He shook Priya’s hand first, her name apparently earning recognition after months of logistical emails, then Eli’s. When he reached Jay, his gaze settled directly on Jay’s face.

“Navarro.”

His voice was low and roughened by the day.

“Call me Jay.”

Harris took his hand. His palm was callused, his grip firm without the competitive crushing Jay sometimes got from men who met him and immediately developed concerns about their own masculinity.

“You planning to leave the truck in the middle of the drive?”

Ah. There he was.

“Hello to you too.” Jay glanced back toward the vehicle. “A small child launched herself in front of it. I made the controversial decision not to run her over.”

Harris’s gaze shifted briefly toward Willa, who had already lost interest in the near-death experience and was crouched beside the porch examining a beetle.

“Move it when you unload.”

“Happy to.”

“No cameras in the private house,” Harris continued. “No kids unless Evan and Elise approve it each time. Nothing in the treatment stalls. Doorways and center aisles stay clear.”

Each rule arrived with the air of something Jay was expected to challenge. He could challenge it, certainly. He could also be thirty-six years old and recognize when an argument had already been conducted in someone else’s imagination.

“We understand the boundaries. We don’t film people or animals in distress simply because they’re available. You won’t need to wrestle a camera out of my hands in a crisis.”

The suspicion in Harris’s face eased by perhaps half a degree, a temporary acknowledgment that Jay possessed the judgment of an average adult.

“Good.”

He turned toward the shed.

Jay let him take two steps. “You requested our interview questions in advance.”

Harris looked back.

Of course Jay could let things go. Frequently. Just not this particular thing.

“I can give you subject areas,” Jay said. “I’m not sending scripted questions, and nobody approves what we ask beforehand.”

“Didn’t ask to approve ’em.”

“You asked Evan for a list.”

“Wanted to know what you’re here to make.”