Page 70 of At First Spark
“Not a hotel,” he adds. “Not a rental. Not even the next town over.”
“Yes.”
His jaw works once. “Okay.”
I blink. “Okay?”
“I don’t like it,” he says. “But okay.”
That throws me more than an argument would have. “Since when do you stop at not liking something?”
He looks down at the plans, then back up. “Since I’m trying to remember you’re not someone I get to manage.”
There it is. No point pretending otherwise.
The words should make me soften. Instead, they make something uneasy move under my skin, because Nolan has always been better at telling half the truth than lying outright.
“Is there a reason you’re worried,” I ask, “or are we just revisiting old habits?”
His gaze flicks toward the back hall, just for a second.
“Both, probably.”
“Nolan.”
He exhales. “The latch on the side gate was open when I got here this morning.”
My spine straightens. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”
“Because I wanted to know whether you’d already noticed.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
The next few minutes disappear into work and friction layered over old familiarity. We move through the back in silence, giving way to function. Measurements. Materials. Timeline. Money. He’s good at this, which is part of the problem. He sees structure first and sentiment later, if at all. My father used to say it made him a strong contractor and a dangerous man to build a life with.
At the time, I thought he was being dramatic. Now I’m not so sure.
We work in the same pattern the next day. Barely acknowledging each other unless it’s something with the house. I don’t ask where he’s staying or why he decided he had to be here, just like he isn’t asking about my determination to finish this project.
By late afternoon, I’ve forced myself through enough to call it progress. Nolan stays after I tell him I’m done because he wants to finish marking the subfloor near the stairs.
I leave him to it and head back to the farm with dust in my hair and old frustration waking up under my skin.
Holt’s truck is already there. One glimpse of it parked by the barn, sun flashing off the windshield, and something in me unravels and settles at the same time. Something that feels awfully close to relief.
Rook beats me to the porch. The front door is half open, and through the screen I can see Holt in the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter while he reads something on his phone. He looks up at the sound of the screen slamming behind the dog and catches sight of me before I can prepare for it.
His whole expression changes. Not much. Just enough that I know I’m not imagining what’s between us anymore.
“You’re early. Figured you’d be there until dark,” he says when I step inside.
“Nolan stayed.”
There’s a pause. One beat. Two.
Then he sets his phone face down on the counter. “How’d that go?”
