“The odds are five-to-one you didn’t hear that,” I tell him, attempting to reclaim some control of the conversation. “And they’re twenty-to-one you didn’t just spend my morning obsessing over it.”
“If I’m obsessing, so are you.” He’s still grinning. “You came in here with carpentry and you’re leaving with dating advice. I’ve won this already. You realize that, right? I’ve just won.”
He’s still laughing when I leave, and he’s right—he’s absolutely right—which is the part that makes this difficult.
Piper Lockwood materializes at my elbow three hours later with a timing that suggests coordination with Jax. They probably have a group chat. Possibly the entire town has a group chat. They’re definitely discussing me.
She appears at my workshop like she owns the place, holding two cups of coffee and enough confidence to fill a room. Piper’s married to Ryder—an unexpected match that works perfectly—so her involvement in this can’t be anything sinister. It’s worse. It’s friendly. It’s matchmaking disguised as neighborly interest and actual social concern.
“Coffee?” she offers, appearing at my workbench like we have standing plans. She sets both cups down without asking, which is Piper. She doesn’t ask permission. She decides what’s happening and moves forward with absolute certainty.
I’m working on the desk—the same desk I’ve been working on for weeks, the same desk that doesn’t actually need this muchattention but gives me something to do with my hands that isn’t thinking. The joinery is intricate. Too intricate. But the level of detail keeps me focused.
“I’m working,” I say, not looking up from the joint I’m fitting.
“I can see that. You’re doing intense joinery on a piece that nobody ordered.” She sits on the edge of my workbench, completely unbothered by the fact that I haven’t invited her to. “Gabby mentioned she hasn’t had any help with social media. Thought I’d offer to walk her through setting something up. Building her bakery’s presence online, that sort of thing.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“I’m offering,” Piper continues, her voice taking on that thoughtful tone that means she’s done with subtlety, “because she’s mortified about a photo of her in town and she’s pretending she’s not, which is very Gabby of her, and I think having some control over her own narrative might actually help. People don’t like feeling like they’re being watched. But people like it when they can decide what people are watching.”
I keep working. The joint is nearly perfect. Another ten minutes and it’ll be done.
“She mentioned the moose,” Piper adds, and I can hear her smiling. “Said he showed up during the salmon croissants. She seemed to think it was hilarious. Also seemed to think you’d find it hilarious too, which is interesting for someone who’s ‘just here temporarily to settle an estate.’”
I look up. Piper’s watching me with that expression that means she’s done with subtlety and is now moving directly into personal excavation.
“What?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s doing. I’m hoping maybe if I ask, she’ll explain herself and I can find a way to push back.
“You already know this,” she says. “That’s what’s making you fix the oven four times. And don’t look at me like that; the entiretown knows. That’s what’s making you build furniture with an unreasonable attention to detail. Not because the work needs doing, but because you’re—” she pauses, searching for the word, “—aware. Of her. In a way that’s making you do unnecessary maintenance and stare at your coffee like it personally wronged you at breakfast.”
I return my attention to the desk. The joinery is nearly impossible to mess up now. I’ve done this long enough that my hands know the steps even when my brain is elsewhere, scattered across a conversation I didn’t ask to have.
“She’s not staying,” I hear myself say. The words come out flat. Factual. Designed to close this down. “She came for sixty days to deal with her inheritance. She has a life in Austin. A life. An apartment. People who know her.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“No, but?—”
“So you’re just assuming?” Piper shifts her weight, getting more comfortable like we’re settling in for a long conversation. “You’re assuming she’s leaving and protecting yourself in advance by fixing ovens instead of talking to her? By building mystery furniture instead of doing literally anything about the actual situation?”
“It’s not protection. It’s—” I set down my tools. This conversation is clearly not happening while I’m occupied with something else. Piper won’t allow it.
“Basic cowardice disguised as practicality?” Piper offers, the tone not unkind but direct. “Classic Jace move. Very typical for someone who lost his parents and then lost his grandfather and spent the last few years learning that everyone eventually leaves.”
I set my chisel down on the bench.
“Are you a therapist now?” I ask quietly.
“No, but I’m married to a firefighter/hockey player, and I’ve heard enough station talk to know that you’ve been alone for seven years by choice.” She hops off the bench, moving to the window that overlooks the main road. “You’ve turned down every date that’s been offered. You’ve made yourself deliberately inaccessible. And I watched you decide that a temporary woman was the exception to that rule—watched you decide that maybe she was worth the risk of breaking your own pattern.”
She glances back at me. Her expression is gentle, which makes it worse somehow. Pity is easier to defend against than understanding.
“And now someone interesting is here and you’re terrified,” Piper continues. “Terrified she’ll either stay—which requires actual vulnerability, which requires showing her the part of you that’s still grieving—or she’ll leave, which confirms what you already believe. That people don’t stay. That love is temporary. So instead you fix ovens and build furniture and wait for her to make the decision for you.”
She drinks her coffee like she hasn’t just diagnosed the entire architecture of my emotional damage with the accuracy of a blueprint.
“Gabby’s different,” Piper adds, almost conversationally. Like we’re discussing the weather and not the foundational structure of my personality. “She’s funny and smart and she’s terrified too. That’s not weakness, by the way. That’s actually the thing that makes someone worth the risk. The fact that she’s scared means she hasn’t shut down her feelings. Means this matters to her. If she decides to stay, it’ll be because she actually chose it.”