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What’s Drift doing right now? Probably closing up for the evening. Wiping down the espresso machine, stacking chairs, maybe eating one of those croissants straight off the tray with his bare hands because the shop was empty and nobody was watching. I could picture it clearly—Drift leaning against the counter, ankles crossed, tearing off a piece of golden pastry while flour still dusted the front of his shirt.
Was he thinking about this morning too? About the way I had nearly destroyed the flour canister in my haste to put distance between us? Probably. Hard to forget a grown man panicking over a near-kiss that wasn’t actually a near-kiss. Drift had been showing me how to use a pastry brush, for god’s sake. The man was being a teacher, not making a move, and I had reacted like a feral cat cornered in an alley.
Smooth. Really sold the “I’m not a broken man” angle.
The timer beeped. I drained the pasta, plated it with the meat I’d been simmering, and the sauce I’d heated up, then carried both dishes to the table. Fork on the left, knife on the right, napkin folded once. I poured Ben’s water and set it at two o’clock from the plate.
I can't do this anymore.
“Dinner’s ready,” I called, my voice carrying the same neutral tone I’d perfected out of practice.
Ben appeared, sat down, and ate without comment. The silence should have been a relief. It was suffocating.
I pushed spaghetti around my plate and wished I was sitting on a stool in a flour-dusted kitchen, eating warm croissants with a man who told me to slow down.
I want to be there.
The thought surfaced before I could drown it, stubborn and bright, lodging itself behind my sternum where Ben’s fists couldn’t reach. I twirled my fork through the pasta and kept my face blank and swallowed the smallest, most dangerous thing I’d felt in years.
Hope.
Chapter Six
Drift
Sawdust clung to my forearms as I worked the sandpaper along the windowsill, feeling the grain catch and release beneath my fingers. The old wood had warped from years of moisture, pulling away from the frame just enough to let drafts whistle through. Nothing a little sanding, fresh caulk, and patience couldn’t fix.
Blade’s new place smelled like pine shavings and old paint. The kitchen still had that wallpaper—the floral-meets-crime-scene atrocity my brother had described, though in person it was somehow worse.
But the bones of the house were solid, the floors were real hardwood under decades of neglect, and the windows let in enough natural light to make the whole place feel like it was breathing.
I dragged the sandpaper along a stubborn ridge and blew the dust free. Something about working with my hands quieted the noise in my head.
“Hand me the wood filler?” Blade knelt beside the back door across the room, prying loose a section of rotted trim with a flathead screwdriver. A chunk of wood came free in his hand, dark with water damage. He held it up and frowned before tossing it aside.
“You could’ve bought something new, you know. Something that didn’t need this much surgery.” I grabbed the tub from the toolbox and slid it across the floor.
“Where’s the fun in that?” My brother caught the tub one-handed. “New places don’t have any character.”
“This place has enough character for six houses.”
“Exactly.” Blade grinned and dug his fingers into the filler. “By the time we’re done, it’ll be perfect.”
I turned back to my sill and ran my thumb along the sanded surface, checking for rough patches. Still a slight lip near the corner. I folded the sandpaper into a tighter square and went at it again, letting the repetition settle me. The wood gave up its imperfections one pass at a time.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I fished it out, expecting my supplier confirming tomorrow’s order. The screen showed the café’s number.
“What’s up, Flint?” I answered, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder so I could keep working.
“Hey.” Flint’s voice was cheerful. The guy was young, built like a greyhound, and could pull espresso shots faster than anyone I’d ever seen. More importantly, he didn’t panic when the morning rush turned the café into a warzone. “Someone named Phineas called for you.”
My hand stilled on the windowsill. “He leave a number?”
“Came through the landline. I grabbed it off caller ID.” Paper rustled on Flint’s end. “Ready?”
“Go ahead.”
