Page 28 of Dirty Fighter

And then I triumphantly fling the shed door open and hit the lights, ready to confront… well, nothing more than a few rows of shelving units, a whole lot of dust, and a handful of spiderwebs.

“Oh.”

Jason steps up beside me. “Hope it was worth it.”

He’s trying to keep a straight face, but there’s a grin in his voice that’s kind of contagious.

“Totally worth it,” I announce, checking behind the first rack of shelves. And I’m not too proud to admit I’m relieved they aren’t housing a nest of anything. “Zero regrets. Ten out of ten stars. Highly recommend.”

I mean, I won, right?

“Yeah, but now you’re the girl who cried wolf. What happens if you hurt yourself for real?” He reaches past me, his broad chest brushing my shoulder lightly as he checks a stack of plywood against the wall. “If I don’t see blood or a bone sticking through your skin, I’m going to just laugh and leave you crumpled on the grass. Tell you to walk it off. Rub some dirt on it.”

“Oh man, I’ll remember that when the internal bleeding gets bad. I asked for this.”

His laugh is low and warm. It’s a good sound, one that has me turning around to try and see his face while he gives in to it. I want to see the way his eyes crinkle and what his mouth looks like when he does, but he’s already moved behind a set of shelves stacked high with… “What is all this?”

“Four generations worth of parts, I guess.”

I lift a brow. “You don’t even know what this stuff is?”

“That’s the toaster that caught fire when I was seven. And I’m pretty sure this might have been the ceiling fan from my dad’s bathroom back when Gramps was still in there. But most of it? No idea.”

There’s so much.

Shelving unit after shelving unit. Some normal stuff like jars filled with nuts, bolts, screws, and nails. But then there are cardboard boxes with illegible writing that look like they’ll disintegrate if you breathe on them, and mechanical autopsies left unfinished with wires and bits hanging every which way.

“Your dad was such a neat guy.”

“Yeah, each year he talked about getting in here, but neither of us ever made the move.” He sighs, checking the next row of shelves. “Looks like you got out of this one for good, Dad.”

We walk the property and inspect the accessible spaces in the cabin, jotting down the most obvious and urgent repairs and chores as we go.

The broken lock tops the list, and honestly, I didn’t know that Jason’s face could have gotten any redder when he documented that little snafu. But he did it.

Also making the list: the drain in the utility room sink, gutters, chimney, shed, and miscellaneous dock and cabin maintenance that happens every year.

Jason started with the chimney while I’ve been picking up sticks and debris from the clearing so I can mow. I’m filling my third bucket when a frenzy of motion from the shed catches my attention.

It’s Jason, covered in what looks like ash, swearing a blue streak as he scrubs his hair like it’s on fire, spins around, and then grabs his T-shirt and— whoa —yanks it overhead in one jaw-dropping, muscles-rippling motion.

I trip into the bucket.

Jason spins wildly, swatting at his back and head with the shirt before taking a few stumbling steps away from the shed. He stops again and wipes his face, looking over his shoulder and then around and⁠—

Yep, that’s me.

He straightens as I raise a tentative hand. “Everything okay over there?”

Another, significantly more controlled pass of his shirt over his face and chest. “Yep. All good. Fine.”

So obviously not fine.

I cross to where he’s attacking his hair, pulling at it, looking at his hand, and then pulling through the messy strands again. Based on that sticky-looking streak of white he keeps missing, I’ve got a pretty good idea about what happened.

“It’s nothing,” he says evenly.

“I know.” I step closer, taking stock of the miles of bare skin on display.