“He won’t be sending them out,” Patrick told her. “He likes to handle things personally.”
He saw her processing that, much the same way she’d processed his father’s setup. To her credit, she didn’t ask the questions he knew were rattling around in her head. She drained the last of her coffee and started cleaning up.
He wasn’t ready to say goodbye. The urge to keep her close, keep her near, was strong.
“Do you have any plans?” he asked.
“Not really. Why?”
“I have a job this morning,” he said. “An estate clear out over on Deep Creek Road. My crew's already out there but I like to check in.” He paused. “Why don’t you come with me?”
She looked at him with more curiosity than reproach.
“It's not glamorous,” he clarified. “It's moving furniture and packing boxes and inventory, but maybe it’ll clear your head.”
She was quiet for a moment, considering it. Then, “Why not?”
The houseon Deep Creek Road was a 1940s colonial on a good piece of land. It had been owned by the same family for three generations, which meant it had accumulated three generations’ worth of stuff. The current owner now lived in Florida and had hired Patrick to handle the contents before the sale. His team had been at it since seven-thirty.
He pulled into the drive behind the moving truck and two of his guys' vehicles. Morgan got out and stood for a moment, taking it all in—front door propped open, a line of boxes on the porch, two guys visible through the bay window moving something large.
“How long does something like this take?” she asked.
“It varies. We usually come out and do a walkthrough before we quote and schedule. We're on day two here. Probably one more after this.”
The sound of something scraping across a hardwood floor came from inside, followed by a brief exchange of voices. Patrick took the porch steps and went in.
His regular crew ran to six guys. He'd built it up from two, back when he and a friend with a pickup truck had started doing weekend moves for extra cash. Now they had two trucks, a trailer, and more bookings than he could take without turning people away. He wasn't in it every day anymore, but he showed up more days than not. It was still his business.
Dalton and Cody—two of his newer hires—were in the living room working on getting a sectional couch around a tight corner. They both looked up when Patrick came in.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Patrick said. “How's it going?”
“Living room's almost done. Kitchen's maybe an hour.” Dalton glanced past him at Morgan, who'd come in behind him and was standing in the entry.
“She’s with me,” Patrick said, stepping forward. Was it a territorial move? Absolutely. Did he care? Not at all.
Morgan didn’t seem to notice. She was looking past Dalton at the dimensions of the hallway and the angle problem the couch presented.
“If you take the legs off the left arm section,” she said, “it’ll clear the corner.”
Dalton looked at her, doubt in his eyes.
“It's three bolts,” she said. “You can see the bracket from here.”
A beat. Cody crouched down and looked. “Huh.”
Twenty minutes later the sectional was on the truck and Morgan was in the kitchen, hands in pockets.
“So where do you want me?” she asked, looking up.
He blinked, inappropriate images coming to mind unbidden. The variety of clear surfaces around them didn’t help. “I’m sorry. What?”
“If I'm going to be here, I might as well be useful.”
“You’re sure?” he asked. “I didn’t ask you out here to work.”