He set the firewood down and cleared the stairs in three efficient trips—plank, sawhorses, chainsaw, tools…all of it relocated to the garage in under two minutes. Then he stepped aside and swept an arm toward the stairs like a doorman at a hotel that had seen much better days.
“It’s all yours, Hartley.”
I hauled my suitcase up the steps, bumping over each one because there was no way I was asking him to carry it. The apartment was one room—bed against the far wall, mini fridge, bathroom through a half-open door. A plaid comforter that matched nothing. A lamp with no shade. And the whole space smelled faintly of sawdust and motor oil.
It was functional. I could work with functional.
I unzipped my suitcase, and the familiar sight of my packing cubes settled something in my chest. Pink for tops, teal for bottoms, lavender for intimates. Everything in its place. I might be sleeping above a stranger’s garage, but at least my suitcase made sense.
A text from Brooklyn interrupted my unpacking.Is there really no other room? Want me to ask around?
I typed back,It’s fine. Separate entrance. Practically an apartment.
Is the outfitter guy hot?
I looked out the window. He was below, splitting wood on a stump near the tree line. He’d dropped the flannel and was working in just the T-shirt, and every time he swung the axe, the fabric pulled across his back in a way that made the word “hot” feel clinically inadequate.
He’s a disaster, I typed.His stairs were blocked with power tools.
So he’s hot. Got it.
I tossed my phone on the bed and finished unpacking. Toiletries lined up on the bathroom sink in order of use—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, left to right. Charger by the nightstand. Tomorrow’s itinerary folded neatly in my day bag.
I needed coffee. The mini fridge was empty. No kitchen. Not even a microwave. Which meant I was going to have to go back down those stairs and find the dude who lived here.
The sound of the axe stopped. I looked down. He was leaning on the handle, looking up at me like he’d been waiting.
“Coffee’s on if you want some,” he called. “Kitchen door’s open.”
I hated that he’d known I needed coffee before I did.
His kitchen was a mess. Mugs in three different cabinets. Yesterday’s grounds still sitting in the coffeemaker basket. The counter buried under mail, a tape measure, granola bar wrappers, and…
What the heck? There was a greasy engine part on his kitchen counter.
I moved it to the windowsill, cleared a space, found a clean mug on the third try, and poured myself coffee. It was strong and hot and actually decent—which annoyed me because it didn’t fit the narrative I was building about him.
“You always rearrange people’s kitchens within the first hour?” He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, sawdust still in his hair.
“I moved one thing. And it was an engine part.”
“Chainsaw air filter, actually. And I was cleaning it.”
“On a kitchen counter.”
“Where else would I clean it?”
I took a sip of coffee instead of answering. The list of appropriate places that were not a kitchen would fill one of my event-planning binders.
He crossed to the coffeemaker and poured his own mug. The kitchen was small enough that the space between us felt like a suggestion rather than a boundary.
“Name’s Dash,” he said, raising his mug slightly.
“I know. Bobbi told me.”
“She tell you anything else?”
“She said you were one of the outfitter guys, and I should consider myself lucky because the other options were ‘less refined.’” I paused. “I’m afraid to ask what ‘less refined’ looks like.”