Page 163 of That Rush

Aiden: Josie is with Mom and Dad until dinner.

Me: Convenient.

Aiden: I thought so.

The workroom door opens, and my coworker leans inside. “The shark expert is asking whether we have anything with blood.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there.”

She smiles. “You look busy.”

“I’m resolving a dispute over fictional standards.”

“Of course you are.”

I wait until she leaves before checking the screen again.

Aiden: I also want to show you something.

Me: That sentence requires clarification after the photograph you sent.

Aiden: I’ve made progress on a project.

Me: That is suspiciously vague.

Aiden: Come see it.

I can almost hear the quiet confidence behind the words. He never asks me to inspect his ranch projects. This one feels personal before I know why.

Me: Will there be dust?

Aiden: Yes.

Me: Then project clothing and counter clothing may be incompatible.

Aiden: Wear something I can lift you onto a counter in.

Me: You were told where your hands belong.

Aiden: Then come remind me.

I smile and type my answer.

Me: I’ll be there after five.

At five thirty-eight, Aiden opens the old ranch office, his gaze fixed on my face, his attention too sharp for a man pretending this is a practical repair.

The swollen door swings open without sticking. The air smells of fresh wood and sawdust, not dust, and the floor is smooth beneath my boots. New outlets interrupt the bare walls. He’s cleaned the cloudy glass in both windows, and the mountain view is suddenly sharp enough to make the room feel twice as large.

Along the far wall, a framework of unfinished pine stretches almost to the ceiling.

I turn to him. “You built shelves.”

“They aren’t finished.”

“That doesn’t make them less shelf-shaped.”

Aiden closes the door behind us. His gray T-shirt only emphasizes what ranch work has done to his shoulders. A streak of sawdust runs along one forearm.