SIX
WES
I staredat the sketch in my lap and grumbled. Something was off. Drafting used to be the one place my brain went quiet, where lines and measurements snapped into place like they’d been waiting on me to notice them. Now everything felt ... crooked. Like I was trying to draw with the wrong hand. Ever since my accident, I found even my favorite part of the job mentally taxing. Now I couldn’t escape the questions swirling in my mind.
What if the homeowner suddenly loses a limb?
Is this accessible?
How will the shower accommodate someone with special needs?
Is that corner too tight for someone in a wheelchair?
I couldn’t stop redesigning every room in my head—widening hallways, lowering counters, shaving off inches that used to feel like nothing. I used to chase open-concept kitchens. Now I was chasing the version of a house that wouldn’t turn on you the second your body did.
Private residences weren’t required to accommodate physical differences. It was something I never gave much thought to until I became someone whose own home was achallenge. There were a millionwhat-ifs and lately they stalled me every time I went to draft a concept.
Hell, I couldn’t even get my own bathroom to stop feeling like a damn obstacle course. The house I’d poured myself into before the accident had turned into a daily reminder of everything I hadn’t planned for.
I built houses other people were proud to come home to. Mine had turned into a place I endured.
With a huff, I tossed my notebook aside and dragged a hand down my face. My palms rasped against the days’ old stubble. I’m not sure how long I’d been parked on the couch, but my ass was numb. My leg throbbed in that familiar, furious way—pain where there wasn’t even a limb.
Phantom bullshit, my physical therapist called it. I called it a cosmic joke.
I lifted my shirt to sniff.
Oh, fuck.
I used to come home from twelve-hour days on-site and still have enough left in the tank to hit the gym and grab a beer. Now the idea of dragging myself into a shower felt like summiting Everest. The fall from “guy who could handle anything” to “guy who can’t manage basic hygiene” had been fast and brutal.
I needed a shower and a shave, but every time I gathered the gumption, I easily talked myself out of it. For most people, they didn’t have to think about the dozens of steps it took to simply take care of yourself. For me, every task seemed daunting.
When my doorbell rang, I paused. The sound sliced through the quiet, sharp enough to make me flinch. Nobody rang the bell anymore unless they wanted something—from me or for me. It was midday, so Hayes should be at work, unless it was another casserole from the town’s unofficial pity committee. I already had a freezer full of lasagnas from people who barely knew my last name but knew I was the guy who lost his leg.
The bell rang again, and I lost all hope of the visitor leaving on their own.
I walked toward the door and paused when I looked through the peephole and saw Clara Darling standing on my front porch. Her blond hair fell in waves down her back, and her foot was tapping like she was nervous. Sunlight caught in her hair, turning it almost white at the ends, and I forgot how to breathe. Clara Darling did not belong on my sad excuse for a porch, not with her restless energy and that always-moving mouth.
She had always looked like trouble. Today she looked like trouble with a suitcase full of feelings I didn’t have the bandwidth for.
Intrigued, I opened the door.
“Hi, Wes.” Her smile bloomed and heat crawled up my neck. I hadn’t seen that smile up close since our run-in at the grocery store. Once again, it hit hard—right in the space between my ribs and all the shit I hadn’t dealt with.
She was also the only person in six months who’d had the balls to tease me about my leg and not immediately fall all over herself apologizing. I wasn’t sure if that made her brave or reckless.
I frowned. “Clara.”
Her eyes moved over me until her face twisted. “You look like shit.”
The worst part was she wasn’t wrong. If anything, she was being generous. I scrubbed a hand across the back of my neck, trying not to laugh. “Thanks?”
Flustered, she let out a nervous chuckle. “Sorry. That was rude. Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I stepped back to allow room for her to enter. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” she said, and as she slid past, her perfume wafted with her. It smelled woody and feminine, like flowers wrapped inspice. It didn’t belong in my stale, takeout-and-muscle-rub air. It made the place feel smaller, like the walls had shifted closer just because she was present.