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“Yeah.”
“I’m glad. I really appreciate—I mean I wouldn’t—I didn’t intend to make…things…hard for you.” When did I get so bad at talking?
Isla makes a sound in the back of her throat, somewhere between a snort and a scoff. “Right.”
Guilt tightens around my heart like a vise.
“I didn’t have a choice,” I say. “I had to leave.”
Isla stares at me for a moment. “Why?” she asks.
The words feel stuck in my throat like a pebble. I swallow and it hurts. Nothing I can say will change anything. My eyes rest on the diamond that sparkles on her left ring finger.
“So, what does Luke think about you having your own booth?” I say, in the worst subject change in the history of conversations.
“He’s happy for me,” she says, with a slight jut of her chin.
I want to ask if he knows I’m making it. I want to know if he knows about us, period. He must, right? Surely they had the whole “rehash our exes” talk that every relationship goes through.
Though we were only together for a matter of hours. So maybe Isla doesn’t see it the same way I do. Maybe it didn’t mean as much to her.
“Well,” Isla says. “Shall we?”
She sits at the computer desk next to mine and takes out her phone. I sit as well. Our knees are almost touching. I catch a whiff of her scent as she sweeps her hair behind her shoulder and shows me her screen. It’s hard to focus with her so close. The soft curve of her collarbone peeps out from beneath the V neck of her blouse. I want to trace that curve with my fingertips. I want to probe the supple round of her shoulder, nuzzle the delicate dent at the base of her throat.
A stirring rises deep inside me and I shift on the chair. I can’t think like this. I force my eyes to the screen, where she’s brought up Pinterest.
“I thought the front could look a little like the entrance to the Thorn,” she says. “With white shingled panels around the space for the door. And then we could use some of the old furniture in the Thorn’s basement, repurpose that for showcasing the pastries. I want it to feel homey, you know? I want it to feel like you’ve gone to your eccentric aunt’s house.”
I take the phone and study the photos. It’s a good idea. It’s very Isla.
“I can make the panels at Reggie’s,” I say. “Probably get the furniture in shape there too. I’ll rent a truck this week.”
“You can use Dad’s truck,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “You sure it’s up to the task?”
She grimaces. “It is for now. There’s a whole laundry list of things to fix at the Thorn. The sink keeps leaking. The shutters could use fresh paint. And the back patio needs new stonework.”
“I can fix the sink,” I offer.
Her brow furrows. “What?”
“I can fix the sink for you. For the Thorn,” I clarify.
“First you’re building chicken coops and now you’re fixing sinks?” she says wryly. “Who are you and what have you done with Caden Everton?”
I can’t help grinning at her. “I’m still me. Just with a few new skills.”
“I’ll say.”
“I like making thing with my hands,” I tell her. “I feel…useful. Plus, I hated all the starched shirts and pressed slacks Dad made me wear.”
“Yes, you’ve certainly adopted a new look,” Isla says, eyeing my clothes. “It’s very Grunge-chic.”
“Damn, I was going for Boho-Handyman.”
Isla laughs and it lights me up inside, brighter than a Christmas tree.