Page 47 of Room to Spare (The Fixer Upper #2)

TWENTY-ONE

Keaton had always believed that work could fix most things, at least for a few hours at a time.

But that particular lie wore thin on mornings like this.

Last night had been the second night he’d slept alone.

Jules had to close at Brew & Barrel, and they’d agreed it made the most sense if those were the nights Keaton stayed at his place and Jules went home to theirs.

If he didn’t love Jules so much, he wasn’t sure he’d have agreed so easily to them spending any time apart. It was strange to think it wasn’t that long ago when he swore he didn’t want anyone in his space, and now the apartment felt too big and empty with just him there.

Rain sluiced down the garage doors of Anderson Homeworks, turning the lot into a patchwork of puddles and pooling mud.

Inside, the office was a crash of fluorescent light and horrible coffee.

Keaton stood in front of the coffeemaker, pouring himself a mug so burned it tasted like regret.

He wasn’t sure who’d decided to change brands, but once he found out, he’d make sure they didn’t make that mistake again.

He sipped anyway, jaw clenching. It was either that or admit he was getting sentimental about the mug sitting in the dish rack, the one Jules had always reached for when they were bored on their days off.

It was white porcelain with a green rim and a faded fox near the handle.

It looked absurdly out of place now. Like it was waiting for a hand that wasn’t coming back.

God, he was being dramatic. And that pissed him off almost as much as coming back from his run soaking wet and alone.

He set his own mug on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

The crew noticed. He could tell by the sudden hush that swept through the room—Finn hunched over his laptop, Luke elbow-deep in tile samples, the new apprentice pretending something was fascinating about sorting drywall screws into bins.

The old-timers shot each other looks, probably silently betting how long it would take for Keaton to snap.

He didn’t oblige them. He was a grown man more than capable of keeping his shit together.

He stalked to his desk, dropping into his chair hard enough to make the wheels shriek.

A stack of invoices waited—sloppy, numbers askew, at least two missing signatures.

He started to circle errors with a red pen, the kind of mistake Finn never made.

“Is there a reason these POs look like they were filled out by a raccoon with a head injury?” he called, not bothering to glance up.

Finn didn’t look over, just slid a battered paperback under a stack of papers as if Keaton wouldn’t notice. “Did you lose a bet, or did you just decide this morning that happiness is overrated?”

Keaton snapped the pen cap back on, harder than necessary. “These should have been filed a week ago. If we don’t keep up on shit like this, the office is going to turn into a pigsty. Am I the only one who notices?”

Finn arched a brow, like he was weighing whether it was worth the energy to call bullshit.

“You can blame this attitude on invoices not being filed, but you might want to take a second to think about why they’re there.

I can’t do fuck-all with them until you look over and approve everything so I can cut the check.

” His focus drifted back to his paperwork.

As if purposely trying to get under Keaton’s skin, he pulled out the paperback and opened it.

And what in the actual fuck? That looked suspiciously like the romance novels Paige was addicted to.

Behind him, Luke hummed tunelessly, a sure sign he was trying not to laugh. “Keaton’s not always a miserable shit, I promise,” he stage-whispered to the apprentice, who bobbed his head so vigorously a pencil fell out from behind his ear.

Finn’s chair creaked as he rocked back, pushing his luck. “You sleeping at all, or just haunting the office now?”

“I’m fine.” He hated how short the answer came out, clipped and uneven, the kind of lie obvious to anyone who’d spent more than an hour in his company.

He didn’t admit that he’d come down to the workshop last night to pull the materials they needed to work on the punch list at the apartment building today.

“You’ve added up that same invoice three times,” Finn observed. “If you keep going, you’re going to fuck up, and we’ll send out a check for double the amount we owe. Maybe you need to take the day off and regroup.”

Keaton pressed his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose. “I said I’m fine. We’ve got subs tripping over each other, a week left before the apartments are supposed to be ready, and I’m the only one who seems worried about it.”

In the past week and a half, he’d signed leases on over a third of the units in the building, and everyone wanted to move in as soon as possible.

Not only would they start losing money by having to pay the subcontractors if they didn’t have everything completed, but they’d have to pro-rate the rent.

That wasn’t an option, even if the guilt of keeping people from getting into a new home wouldn’t eat at him.

Finn set down his paperback, folding his hands with exaggerated patience.

“The schedule’s tight, but not impossible.

You’re acting like someone salted your coffee, not like we still have some items on the punch list and a couple of bigger tasks left to get done.

There’s nothing left that’s going to keep you from getting the certificate of occupancy, and you know it.

So maybe chill before you scare off the new kid. ”

“Maybe this is my retirement that’s on the line, and I don’t want to piss away any more of it than I already have.

” It wasn’t their fault it had taken longer than expected to pull the permits or that they’d found a shitload of unexpected renovations that needed to be done.

He took a deep breath, reminding himself he couldn’t afford to scare off two of his best friends, not to mention the rest of his employees, just because he was exhausted.

From the corner, Luke piped up, “Or maybe you just miss having someone around who called you on your crap before breakfast.” The apprentice’s eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe someone could get away with talking to the boss like that.

“Do you need me to call Jules and tell them what a prick you’re being?

I’m sure they’d come over and slap some sense into you. ”

Finn cracked a smile, but his gaze didn’t soften. “He’s got a point. You’ve been snapping at everyone since you handed them the keys to their apartment.” It didn’t seem like anyone needed to reach out to Jules. Finn and Luke were more than capable of calling him out.

He forced his thoughts in another direction, hunting for the next fire to put out. “Has the flooring shipment shown up for Building C?”

Finn shrugged, not bothering to reach for the file. “Checked it in myself. Yesterday. It’s stacked in the far corner, like you asked.”

“And permits for Standing Pipe?” They didn’t do a ton of new builds, but recently, the opportunity had landed in Keaton’s lap to buy some of the parcels in a new subdivision.

That would help him return to what his dad loved to do.

Work was supposed to start soon, and he felt like he was in the dark about it.

“Approved.” Finn’s patience was the kind that didn’t flinch. “Want me to recite the lot numbers too?”

Keaton wanted to snap, to tell Finn to quit being a sarcastic shit, but that would make it obvious he’d lost the thread entirely.

Instead, he turned the invoice over, tracing the ragged edge of the paper.

Even the smallest things felt untethered today: numbers that didn’t add up, coffee that tasted wrong, a partner whose laughter didn’t echo down his apartment hallway anymore.

“You’re not yourself,” Finn said quietly, letting the words settle in the hush. “And don’t say it’s just deadlines.”

Keaton finally met his eyes, finding nothing but calm patience there. “How many times do I have to tell you I’m fine? Now, can we quit the bullshit and get to work?”

Finn let silence stretch, unhurried. “Yeah. Sure, you are.” He didn’t push further.

The old-timers drifted out, rain gear draped across their arms, muttering about supply runs. The new apprentice fled behind them, eager to escape whatever storm was brewing inside the office.

Luke lingered, tapping a tile sample against the edge of Keaton’s desk. “You want me to head to the site now or wait for your go-ahead?”

Keaton glanced up, jaw set. “Go. I’ll follow in ten.”

Luke departed with a careless salute, but not before throwing Finn a pointed look. Finn just nodded, the silent language of men who’d known each other long enough to communicate in shrugs and raised eyebrows.

The office emptied, leaving only the patter of rain against the windows and Finn tapping away at his keyboard.

Keaton looked at the mug on the rack again, the one Jules had claimed long ago, wishing they’d come down the stairs wanting to tell Keaton something he found mundane or meaningless that excited them.

He hadn’t realized, until this moment how quickly a space could turn unfamiliar, how absence could be its own kind of noise.

Finn waited, typing in a slow rhythm, like he was marking time for Keaton to speak. But Keaton only reached for his iPad, scrolling through the punch lists just for something to do.

Outside, the rain lightened, tapping a softer pattern against the glass. Finn’s foot nudged his desk again, a gentle warning. “You wanna stare at that all day, or do you want to go over and see how the crew is coming along on the punch list?”

Keaton grunted, grabbing his jacket. He wondered, for the first time, if doing everything right was worth it if the spaces he’d fought to keep tidy were only ever meant to hold someone else’s chaos.

And, maybe, if it was finally time to admit he missed it.