For a heartbeat, memory slams through me of his warmth under my hands, the solid line of muscle along his spine, and the sharp breath he drew when my fingers traced it. Then the image of Auren’s bruised wrist replaces it, sending my stomach into a churn.
I never struck him, but I can recall too many evenings when I walked through the door only to find him injured, shame washing over me for not taking better care of him. And how he’d reinforce my feelings of guilt by walking around for the next week, displaying those wounds to gain sympathy.
That post is just another tool in his endless need for attention.
What I don’t understand is why he’s doing this now, when he finally has his “perfect” pack. Or why his actions still stir up doubt in me after all this time.
“Emily?” Nathaniel steps into my line of sight. “The crew’s asking about the hallway fixtures. Where do you want them installed first?”
I stare at him, mind blank, before my professional training kicks in. “Tell them—no, wait—just have them do the west wing first. Painters are still working on the second floor.”
He studies my face, concern evident in the furrow of his brow. “Are you okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Not a ghost, I think, but a demon I thought I’d exorcised. “Just wrestling with supply chain issues. Nothing new.”
Nathaniel accepts this, though doubt lingers in his expression. As he walks away, I turn back to the clipboard, forcing myself to track the lines, willing my brain to process the information. Focus on what’s real, what’s here.
Not Auren’s lies or Jared’s longing looks or the confusion that swirls between them, impossible to separate.
The afternoon crawls by in a haze of conversations I can’t quite focus on. My body goes through the motions, checking off completed tasks, directing crew members, but my mind circles back to that photo like a moth to flame. Each vibration from myphone pocket sends a jolt through my system, adrenaline spiking, and I have to resist the urge to unblock him several times.
Rain continues to fall, not the driving downpour of morning but a steady, insidious drizzle that soaks through every seam and gap. Boot prints fill with water almost as soon as they form, tarps sag under the weight of collected rain, and workers curse as cold droplets find their way down shirt collars.
I run my hand along the countertop, checking for uneven seams where the caulk meets the backsplash. The painters are finishing touch-ups in the dining room, and the faint scent of latex and sawdust lingers beneath the sharper tang of rain seeping through the open doorway. Outside, puddles have swallowed half the gravel pathway.
“Emily?” Nathaniel touches my elbow, breaking through the noise of rain and drilling. “Did you catch my update about the lumber delivery?”
I straighten too fast, the world tipping before it steadies. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if we should cancel tomorrow’s delivery if the rain keeps up. The ground’s too soft for a four-wheeler to safely get back up from the docks.”
“Right.” My mind catches up a beat late. “Ifthey leave it at the dock, we can cart it up ourselves.”
“That’s a lot of extra work.” His pen taps the clipboard. “We could postpone until Monday. Let the ground dry.”
“Monday puts us behind schedule.” The words come out on autopilot, my mind still distracted.
“But if we tear up the new landscaping with carts?—”
“We won’t.” The words come out sharper than I intend, and I force a breath. “We’ll lay down plywood to protect it.”
Nathaniel hesitates, studying me. “Yousureyou’re okay?”
“Fine.” I brush past him toward the new check-in area, where a pair of workers are installing light fixtures. “Just keeping us moving.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch him exchanging a look with Blake, who’s shaking rain from his coat in the entryway. The unspoken concern crawls across my skin, unwanted but not unwarranted.
Later, I’m double-checking fixture placements with the electrician when Clint passes by with twolaborers, all three of them tracking muddy boot prints across the cardboard that protects the new flooring.
“Hey, boss!” Clint calls, grinning. “Hear about the electrician who went to the doctor?”
I blink, my brain lagging. “What?”
“The electrician who went to the doctor,” he repeats. “Doctor said he had a terminal illness!”
The laborers laugh.
I don’t.