Page 13 of Stealing Home

“No, sir,” Gavin said, coming to a stop at a red light. “I’m just a contractor.”

Mr. Davis laughed. “I guess there isn’t much difference today.”

Gavin could have argued, but Mr. Davis had already said goodbye and hung up. He shook his head, and eased onto the gas when the light turned green. Progress was measured in car lengths, and apparently, half of San Diego had decided to wait until the last possible minute to prepare for the storm. Now everyone was clogging the roads on their way to buy bottled water, batteries, and plywood. He rested one forearm on the steering wheel as brake lights stretched endlessly ahead of him. His truck smelled like wet plywood, sawdust, and the coffee he’d spilled that morning. Every time he tapped the brakes, a tape measure rattled in the center console and a stack of estimate forms threatened to slide off the passenger seat.

Once upon a time, he’d driven a truck that looked like it belonged to someone who built multi-million-dollar homes. The leather seats had been conditioned every month, the floors vacuumed, and the paint polished until it gleamed. Clients occasionally rode with him to job sites, and he’d cared what they thought when they climbed inside.

That truck had burned with everything else.

This truck he’d bought used, a few weeks after the fire, back when he still lived in Northern California and was desperately trying to convince himself his business would survive. It had more miles than he’d wanted, a few dents the salesman had generously described as “character,” and a faint rattle that had never entirely gone away. His ex-husband had hated it from the moment Gavin brought it home, insisting they should wait for the insurance money so they could buy something new. Gavin hadn’t seen the point.

The truck started every morning, had room for his tools, and didn’t come with another monthly payment. Two years later, it had fresh dents, fresh scratches, and a passenger seat perpetually buried under paperwork. A box of screws had spilled beneath the seat sometime last week, and he still hadn’t bothered picking them up. Luxury clients expected polished. Homeowners with broken fences generally didn’t care.

Looking back, Gavin knew Ethan had never really been angry about the truck. He’d been angry about what it represented. Before the fire, Gavin had believed in upgrading, expanding, building bigger and better. Afterward, “good enough” had become a philosophy instead of a temporary compromise. The truck was just the first place Ethan had noticed it.

His phone buzzed again, and he smiled when he saw Mom on the screen. He answered through the truck’s Bluetooth. The traffic moved slightly in front of him, and he let off the brakes enough to roll forward a few inches.

“There you are,” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I was on a ladder.”

“That explains it.”

She asked about the weather, and Gavin could picture Diane Carter as clearly as if she were sitting beside him instead of more than eight hundred miles away. Petite with short silver-blonde hair and laugh lines earned from smiling more than frowning, she’d spent most of Gavin’s life balancing a mug of coffee in one hand and the rest of the family in the other. She’d always been the one everyone gravitated toward without realizing they were doing it.

Gavin glanced through the windshield at the sea of brake lights ahead of him. “We’ve had a few raindrops, but apparently, San Diego is preparing for the apocalypse.”

“Southern California,” she said with a laugh. “Have you eaten?”

He chuckled. She asked the same question every time they talked. “I had coffee.”

“Gavin.”

“And a protein bar.”

“You worked all day without eating?” Her voice was full of reproach.

“I got busy,” he said defensively. “Not sure if you heard, but there’s a massive monsoon approaching San Diego.”

“I worry,” she said softly.

“I know.” He did know. He was the baby she and his dad had spent ten years waiting for, grieving more losses than anyone should have to endure. Some part of her had never seemed to stop waiting for the world to take him back.

A soft sigh came through the speakers before she changed the subject. “Your dad wants to know if you’ve watched the Kings game yet.”

“I’ve been working.” He listened as she relayed his response, the rumble of his father’s voice in the background.

“He says that’s a poor excuse.”

A smile tugged at Gavin’s mouth. “I’ll text him later.”

“He misses arguing hockey with you.”

“I miss arguing with him too.”

The admission caught him off guard. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but once he had, he realized how true it was. He missed Sunday dinners around his parents’ kitchen table, his dad yelling at the television as though the Kings could hear his coaching advice from six hundred miles away. He missed his mom pretending to tune them both out until she’d casually chime in with some obscure bit of hockey trivia that ended the argument before either of them could claim victory.

“How’s work?” she asked after a moment.