Page 25

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We’ve been here a few weeks now, and we seem to be getting along in a weird sort of way. The scent of fresh paint hangs in the air, thick with turpentine and salt. The old walls of Grandma’s house are finally taking in a new color, a soft, muted blue, almost the same shade as the ocean on a calm day. The roller glides across the surface, leaving smooth, even strokes behind.
I step back, hands on my hips, surveying my work. It’s coming together. Bit by bit, this house is starting to look like a home again. A deep clang echoes from below. I smirk. Bryan’s still at it.
Buddy, stretched out beside me, lazily gnaws at his favorite chew toy, oblivious to the way my mind keeps drifting to the man in the basement. I shake my head, rolling my eyes at myself. It’s just about the house.
That’s what this lightness in my chest is about. That’s why there’s warmth curling in my stomach. That’s why I’m smiling more than usual. It’s not because of him.
I dip my roller back into the paint tray, humming absently, the sound mingling with the steady rhythm of Bryan’s hammering downstairs. It’s oddly comforting, his presence filling the quiet corners of the house.
I never realized how much I missed it; how much I missed this. For a second, I let myself sink into the memory.
Summers spent in this house, Bryan beside me, both of us barefoot and sun-kissed, dreaming about everything we’d do one day. Back then, it always felt like there was time. That we had all the time in the world.
I shake the thought away, setting the roller down as I wipe my hands on my jeans. No use looking back.
Another clang. A muffled curse. I snort, grabbing a clean rag before heading downstairs.
The basement is dim, the air cooler, carrying the scent of sawdust and damp wood. Bryan is crouched near the door hinge, sleeves rolled up, sweat beading along his forearms.
I pause at the bottom step.Man alive, does he look good!
The dim lighting casts shadows along his jaw, the sharp angles of his face more defined. His hair is slightly tousled and a bead of sweat trails down the side of his neck.
I swallow. Nope. Not thinking about that. Instead, I clear my throat. “Need help?”
He doesn’t look up, just grunts. “Nah.”
A second later, metal scrapes, the hinge sticking again, and he mutters another curse under his breath.
I smirk. “Right. You’ve totally got this under control.”
He glares at me. “If you’re here to mock me, you can leave.”
I step closer, arms crossed. “And miss watching you struggle? Not a chance.”
He exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “The thing’s warped. Keeps catching.”
I nudge his knee with my foot. “Scoot.” He narrows his eyes but moves back just enough.
I kneel beside him, grabbing the screwdriver and inspecting the hinge. It’s rusted over in parts, the screws slightly bent from years of use. “See? You’re using too much force,” I say, twisting it carefully. “Loosen it first, then…”
Our hands brush. I freeze.
His fingers are warm, rough, and the contact sends a jolt straight through me. For a second, neither of us moves.
The air shifts. Heavy. Charged. I force myself to keep my eyes on the hinge. But I feel it.
The way his breathing changes. The way his body stills beside me. The way my own pulse betrays me, hammering a little too hard.
His voice is lower when he speaks. “You always had to prove you were better at this stuff.”
I arch a brow, turning to face him. Bad idea. He’s too close.
His face is just inches away, those green eyes locked onto mine. The hint of sweat and cedar in the air makes my stomach do an uncomfortable flip.
No way. I clear my throat. “I am better.”