Page 4 of Show Me

“Follow me.” He reaches into my cart and pulls out the roll of insulation. “This is for interior walls. You want R-60 for the attic, and we can talk about blow-in insulation later.”

“R-60,” I repeat, like that means something to me. “Got it.”

“You don’t got it.” He stops in front of the insulation aisle and points to the R-60 placard.

“I absolutely got it.” I’m lying.

He studies me another second, then nods toward the front of the store. “I’ve got a job site waiting. You want me to stop by later, look at the place, tell you where to start?”

My heart does another stupid little skip. I ignore it. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.” He starts to turn away, then pauses. “You’re going to need a better plan than a Pinterest board and stubbornness.”

“I’ve made it this far on stubbornness.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. You have.”

The bell over the door rings again as he ambles to the checkout, a rope coil carried over one shoulder.

The right insulation. The right anchors. One can of paint.

My chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with insulation. I didn’t ask for help, but I didn’t tell him not to come by, either. I still feel where his arm touched mine. Barely anything. Which makes it worse.

I don’t remember when my foolish crush on Xavier started, but it’s never quite ended. And inviting him to my home is asking for trouble. Trouble I don’t need. Trouble I might not survive.

Xavier Cole doesn’t stay. He passes through.

Chapter Two

Xavier

The Next Morning

The wind cuts straight through the open frame of the house, carrying the aroma of damp lumber and cold earth.

I adjust my grip on the level and sight down the wall again.

“Still off?” Mark steps up behind me.

“Quarter inch. Which turns into a bigger problem the higher we go.”

“Everything turns into a bigger problem with you,” he mutters.

I ignore him, shifting the stud and checking it again. Better. Not perfect. Close enough that it won’t haunt me later.

“That one’s good.” I step back.

Nate hammers it into place, the loud crack echoing through the skeletal frame of the house. Sawdust hangs in the air, catching the weak daylight, and the whole place smells like fresh-cut pine and metal.

It’s a clean job. Straight lines. Solid foundation. The way it should be.

“Kitchen’s going to sit right here?” Mark tips his head toward the open space in the center of the building, his faded cap low and his beard pointed from where he pulls it down when he’s thinking.

“Yeah.” Today is Mark’s first day on this job, as he’s been finishing up a project on the other side of town.

“Good spot.” Nate straightens from the stud with the hammer loose in his hand, forearm flexing from the last swing. A stripe of sawdust clings to the front of his black T-shirt and a sweat stain darkens the brim of his cap. “Central. Pipes’ll run clean.”

“Less chance of freezing.” And just like that, I’m back in the sheetrock aisle. Three shades of white. Wrong anchors. A cart full of optimism and no plan.