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“You keep showin’ up whether anybody wants you here or not,” he replies.

“Also true.”

Before the foreman can say anything else, Jules appears from inside the trailer carrying two clipboards, two coffee cups, and enough exasperation to power the entire city.

He looks exhausted. His dark hair sticks up in several directions, paint marks stain the knees of his jeans, and there are shadows beneath his eyes that suggest he hasn’t slept properly since the fire.

The moment he sees Maggie standing beside active construction, he throws one hand into the air.

“Absolutely not.”

Maggie turns. “Oh, hush.”

“I left you alone for twelve minutes.” Jules deposits the clipboards onto the table with dramatic outrage. “Twelve. Minutes. And somehow you've already convinced hardworkin’ men to ignore building codes.”

The foreman wisely retreats.

Maggie folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin. “I was helpin’.”

Jules plants both hands on his hips and gives her a look that says he's not buying it. “You're pregnant.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “I’m barely pregnant.”

“You’re still banned from manual labor,” Jules informs her, pointing a finger in her direction for emphasis.

She throws her hands into the air. “I'm not doin’ manual labor.”

Jules points at the blueprints spread across the folding table. “You're project managin’.”

“I own the shelter,” Maggie argues, gesturing toward the construction crews bustling around them.

Jules snorts. “Which means your job is to sit down, supervise, and let everybody else suffer.”

Maggie opens her mouth to argue. Then she notices me. Every expression leaves her face at once.

The distance between us disappears as she crosses the parking lot. “You're late,” she says softly when she reaches me.

I touch her face before I can stop myself. “Sorry. Business.”

Her hand closes around my wrist. “You look awful.”

I almost laugh. “Thank you.”

“I'm serious.” Her thumb brushes across the inside of my wrist. “What happened?”

I should tell her. I know that. Every instinct tells me she deserves the truth.

Then Ivy runs around the corner wearing her pink dance leotard beneath a zip-up hoodie.

“Papa!”

She launches herself at me.

I catch her automatically.

“You’re here!”

“I promised.”