Page 12 of Between the Lines

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” she says, staring at me from the sidewalk.

I pull my sunglasses off my face. “It won’t take long.”

She hesitates, peering over her shoulder at the little yellow house.

“You’re getting scammed by whoever gave you that quote,” I say, more firmly. I don’t get why she’s being so stubborn about this. “It doesn’t hurt to get a second opinion, and I know a lot about construction.”

She bounces on her feet, expelling a huff of air. “Uhm, sure. That’s fine.”

“Text me your address, I’ll meet you there.”

“Wait—you want to look now, like today?”

I nod. “Yeah, may as well.”

Fia clasps her hands together. “Fine. I’ll text you my address.” She turns, rushing through the white picket-fence gate.

It’s actually not the first time I’ve been to her house. Almost two years ago, I gave her a ride after our company Christmas party. She was heavily pregnant and didn’t say a word the whole way home. Other than our few and far between meetings at the coffee shop, that’s about the extent of our relationship.

Which is fine with me.

Boundaries are important.

You can’t be friends with your employees, not truly. Especially not a girl ten years younger than you, who is objectively attractive. It doesn’t look good, and it’s not a road I want to go down. What I can ensure is that Good Grinds is a place my employees feel safe and stable at.

Two minutes later, I park on the street in front of what I assume was once a charming house. It now sits sad, with faded blue clapboard and overgrown bushes that need pruning. There’s a large wreath with pink flowers hanging on the front door, and a tiny brown cat basking in the sun on a weathered rocking chair.

I know what I pay Fia. It’s good but not nearly enough for the upkeep a house like this requires.

As I step out of the car, she rounds the block pushing a stroller.

“You really don’t have to look. I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do,” she says the moment I’m in earshot.

“Just show me the issue, I’m already here.” I toss my hands up.

Fia purses her lips. “Alright, fine. Follow me this way.”

I trail behind her as she deposits the stroller at the base of the porch steps and pulls her daughter from the seat.

I stand motionless, hands in pockets, trying not to stare, but two green eyes are glued to me. They don’t belong to Fia.

“This is Daisy,” she says, noticing her daughter has me locked in a stare-down. Daisy offers me a toothy smile. “She loves everyone.”

I follow Fia up to the porch, noticing how it bows under my weight. She doesn’t seem bothered as her long legs carry her to the front door.

Fia balances the toddler on her hip and searches through what looks like a bottomless bag for her keys.

I wait, glancing over to see an old gold sedan parked next to the house. The paint’s chipped and layers of dust coat the hood.

I smile tight. “Is that your car?”

“Yeah . . . I’m saving for new tires, so I don’t drive it often,” Fia responds, fumbling with a keychain full of keys.

My eyes linger back on the car, but then the baby starts to fuss, pushing against her mother’s shoulder.

“Here, let me,” I huff out and before Fia can protest, I grab the keys from her hand.

“You don’t have to—”