Page 73 of Buttons

“On it,” Julian says, picking up his tool bag.

“Oh! And sign the liability waiver first, please.” I glance at his shoes while imagining rusty nails and glass sinking straight into the soles. Not that I want that to happen. Please, don’t let that happen.

“Will do.” He steps away.

“And watch where you step, just in case!”

“Yes, darling,” he says smoothly. Oh my. His tone goes straight to my core.

I watch him head toward the building, his usual confident stride slightly tempered as he navigates around debris. The volunteers part like the Red Sea, whispering to each other as he passes.

“Well, that’s a development,” Beatrix mutters beside me.

“He’s trying to prove something,” I reply, my voice low.

Beatrix snorts. “Aren’t we all?” She nods toward the building where Julian ‌disappeared through the doorway. “Question is, will he stick around when his fancy clothes get dirty and hishands start to blister? Volunteering to hold puppies and kittens is one thing, but this is an entirely different beast.”

Right on cue, someone yells, “Watch out!” moments before a crash sounds inside. Then the same voice shouts, “All good!”

Yes, definitely happy I hadn’t brought my kids here.

As the afternoon continues, I pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove. It’s about one p.m. now, and we’ve been at it for several hours. I turn, scanning for Julian, expecting to see him still wrestling with the heavy shelving units or perhaps consulting with Connor. The corner where he was working is empty, his tools neatly aligned on a discarded tarp.

A familiar, hollow weight settles in my stomach as I look toward the front entrance. I assume the physical grit has finally overwhelmed him. It’s the logical conclusion. I’m honestly surprised he lasted this long.

I am reaching for my clipboard when the back door creaks open. Julian steps through, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a large brown paper bag tucked under each arm. He looks slightly winded, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, but his eyes find mine immediately.

“I realized that labor is much more efficient when the laborers are properly fed,” he says, his voice carrying clearly over the hum of the portable speaker. He gestures toward the quiet, overgrown alleyway behind the building through an open window. “Would you join me for a few minutes of quiet before we tackle the back room?”

A few workers overhear Julian mention food and huddle next to him. Julian passes out sandwiches before motioning for me. I follow him out into the small patch of grass that struggles togrow between the cracked pavement. He has found a relatively clean stone ledge and begins unpacking the bags over a blanket he must have brought from home. The scent of toasted sourdough and fresh greens from the local deli fills the air.

“I remembered that you used to order the ham and cranberry on sourdough whenever we were in a hurry,” he murmurs, handing me a neatly wrapped sandwich.

Yum. I can’t believe he brought me, and everyone else, lunch. It’s so thoughtful.

He then reaches back into the bag and pulls out a chilled bottle of wine. I recognize the label instantly: Pinot Noir. It is the kind he insists I drink every time we order wine.

He pours a small amount into two plastic cups and hands one to me. I take it, the cold condensation dampening my palm, but I do not take a sip. I simply stare. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable, until Julian lowers his cup.

He studies my face, his brow furrowing as he processes my stillness. He looks down at the bottle, then back at me, and slowly hangs his head.

“You do not actually like Pinot Noir very much, do you?” he asks, the words sounding heavy and full of a sudden, sharp realization.

“No,” I admit, my voice quiet but steady in the afternoon air. “I prefer Cabernet.”

“I’m sorry, El. Even now, I’m making mistakes. If I’d only taken a second to think, or ask, I’d have remembered.”

The apology feels genuine. It is not about being right; it is about acknowledging that he has been looking at a version of me that did not exist. The honesty in his voice makes my heart do a painful little stutter. This is the Julian I fell in love with, not the man who makes lists, but the man who looks at a problem with such terrifying intensity that you feel like the most important thing in the universe. When we first met, that intensity wasdirected at me. He used to watch me across the office as if I were a puzzle he was desperate to solve.

I take a bite of my sandwich.

“Can I get you some Cabernet for dinner?” he asks.

“You might have to settle for drinking it on a crate since I still have three rooms to clear,” I tell him, my voice softening as I see the hope flare in his gaze.

“I would happily sit on a bed of nails if it meant I got to spend an hour listening to you talk about your day.” When I thin my lips, he elaborates, “After they’ve been bleached clean and I’ve been given a tetanus shot, of course.”

This makes me laugh, so much so that my belly aches. It’s so painfully Julian, and I know he actually means it. But that brings up another question.