He shakes his head, moving back toward the counter with the washer kit still in hand. "I mean that Eli Cross is about as interested in people as a bear is in traffic. Nice enough guy, don't get me wrong. Just distant."
"Distant like shy, or distant like witness protection?"
"Distant like he bought a cabin in the woods six years ago and hasn't come up for air since." Frank sets the kit down and leans against the counter, settling into what I recognize as storytelling posture. "Ex-military. Did a couple tours overseas. Came backdifferent, the way some of them do. Keeps to himself now. Works the lumber, takes care of his dog, comes into town maybe twice a month if that."
I process this. "So, he's not unfriendly. He's just—"
"Unfriendly, yes" Frank says. "But for his own reasons."
There's something in the way he says it that makes me not push. I know that tone. It's the same one people used when they talked about Mom toward the end, when *how is she* really meant *is she still here* and everyone tiptoed around the hard parts because acknowledging them felt too heavy.
"Well," I say, "he was right about the washer."
"Usually is," Frank admits. "Man knows his way around just about anything you can build or fix. Just doesn't offer the information unless something's wrong enough to bother him."
"And me getting the wrong part was wrong enough?"
"Apparently."
I laugh, and it echoes a little in the quiet store. "Okay. So, what do I actually need?"
Frank walks me through it: O-rings, cartridges, the difference between a compression faucet and a ball faucet and about six other types of faucets I didn't know existed. I leave twenty minutes later with a small bag of supplies and the distinct feeling that I'm still going to screw this up, but at least I'll screw it up with the correct materials.
The air outside is crisp and clean in a way that city air never is. It smells like pine and dirt and weather. I take a breath and let it fill my lungs, then head toward my car.
That's when I see him.
Eli.
He's leaning against a massive pickup truck that looks like it's seen some things, arms crossed, talking to a dog.
Not a person. A dog.
The dog is huge. Some kind of mutt with gray fur and ears that don't quite match. It's sitting at attention, looking up at Eli like he's delivering a sermon.
I slow down, because I'm nosy and because there's something about watching this enormous, gruff man have a full conversation with a dog that I find absolutely fascinating.
"I know," Eli is saying. "But we're not getting the good kibble until Friday, so you're going to have to make do."
The dog makes a low sound that might be a grumble.
"Don't start," Eli says. "You ate half a deer carcass last week. You're fine."
I'm trying very hard not to laugh. I'm failing. He must hear me, because his head snaps up and those storm-gray eyes lock onto me.
"Hi," I say, because I've already been caught and there's no point pretending I wasn't eavesdropping.
He straightens. Doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like I'm a problem he didn't anticipate. The dog, however, has no such reservations. It trots over immediately, tail wagging, and shoves its nose directly into my hand.
"Well, hello," I say, crouching down to scratch behind its mismatched ears. "Aren't you friendly?"
"Ridge," Eli says. Just the name. Like that explains everything.
"Ridge," I repeat, looking up at him. "That's a good name."
He doesn't respond. Just watches me like he's trying to figure out what species I am. I stand back up, and I have to tilt my head back again to meet his eyes. He really is absurdly tall.
"I'm Jade," I say. "I just moved here. Bought the old Porter house."