GEMMA
The budget reports were done. The timeline had been reviewed, annotated, and initialed in triplicate. I had everything I needed to file a complete progress update with the mayor’s office.
So why was I still sitting here?
The afternoon light had shifted, turning golden through the trailer’s small windows. We’d been at this for hours—long enough that Kade had eventually made the short drive to the Roadhouse and come back with burgers and fries, which we’d eaten at his desk between invoice reviews. The empty wrappers were still crumpled in the trash can, and the smell of fried onions lingered in the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of sawdust and coffee.
Kade had loosened up over the course of the day. Not much—the man was still about as approachable as a porcupine—but the sharp edges had softened slightly. He’d stopped scowling at the blueprints and started actually talking to me like a human being instead of an inconvenience. Sharing a meal did that, I supposed. Even a meal eaten in awkward silence over construction documents.
“So how’d you end up here?” I asked, setting aside my notepad. The official business was done. This was just…curiosity. “Wildwood Valley isn’t exactly a destination.”
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. The movement stretched his flannel tight across his shoulders, and I made myself look at his face instead. “Work. Solitude. Needed a fresh start.”
“Fresh start from what?”
His eyes met mine, and for a second, I thought he might actually answer. Then the walls came back up.
“Just needed a change,” he said.
I didn’t push. Whatever he was running from, it wasn’t my business. We all had our reasons for being where we were.
“What about you?” He turned the question around, studying me with those winter-pale eyes. “You grew up here, right? Still working here, still living here. Don’t you want more?”
The question pricked at something tender. I heard echoes of my mother in it, of well-meaning relatives at holiday dinners, of everyone who assumed that staying in Wildwood Valley meant settling for less.
“I love this town,” I said, surprised by how defensive I sounded. I made myself take a breath and soften my tone. “I know it’s small. I know most people my age couldn’t wait to leave. But I want to build something here. A career that matters. A life that means something.” I traced a pattern on the desk with my finger, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe a family someday. Just not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“I’m twenty-three. I’ve got time.” I shrugged, aiming for casual. “Right now, I’m focused on proving I’m more than the kid who fetches coffee and gets sent to construction sites on holidays.”
Something flickered across his face. I couldn’t read it—this man was harder to decipher than his own budget spreadsheets.
“And love?” His voice had gone rougher, lower. “Where does that fit into the plan?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too personal for a conversation with a near-stranger, even one I’d been trapped in a trailer with for six hours. Even one who’d bought me lunch without being asked.
“It can wait,” I said. “I’ve got time for that too.”
He held my gaze for a beat too long. Then he looked away, jaw tightening.
I should have let it drop. Should have gathered my things and headed back to my truck and filed my report and never thought about Kade Mercer again.
Instead, I leaned forward. “What about you? Anyone waiting at home?”
“No.” The word was flat, final. “And there won’t be.”
The certainty in his voice startled me. Not the sad resignation of someone who hadn’t found love yet—this was something harder. Angrier. A door slammed shut and dead-bolted from the inside.
“Why not?”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. The space heater hummed. The wind rattled the trailer walls. Outside, the light was starting to fade, Valentine’s Day slipping toward evening while I sat here asking questions I had no right to ask.
“My parents were high school sweethearts,” he said, his voice distant. “Everyone said they were perfect for each other. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other, couldn’t stand to be apart. The kind of love people write songs about.”
I waited, sensing there was more.
“By the time I was old enough to understand what was happening, that love had turned into something else. They’d fight for hours—screaming matches that shook the walls. Then they’d make up, and everything would be perfect for a week, maybe two. Then it would start again.” He stared at the wall behind me, seeing something I couldn’t. “Twenty years of that. Twenty years of watching two people who loved each other tear each other to pieces, bit by bit, until there was nothing left but wreckage.”