Page 50 of Restored By You

And Rhett? He has gone very, very still. He sets down his pencil and when his eyes find mine across the open space, they’re not the soft eyes that kissed me goodbye mere hours ago.

“Shea.” My name comes out even as he crosses the floor, and a professional air settles between us that I feel like a slap. “What are you doing up here?”

I blink. “You, um, left your phone.” I fumble it out of my bag and hold it out to him. “You had a bunch of missed calls, I thought you’d need—”

“You should’ve left it at the desk,” he says, clipped. His jaw’s tight as his eyes cut to the general manager, to the crew watching us. And I understand, in a sick lurching instant, that I have done something wrong just by being here.

“I’ll walk you out.” His hand hovers near my elbow, not quite touching, steering me back toward the plastic barrier, away from everyone. His voice drops, but it’s not cold, it’s worse. Strained, almost pleading, he tells me, “Not here, Shea. Please. Not here.”

My face is on fire. My eyes sting. I don’t understand what just happened, only that I’m suddenly feeling like…a problem. And it’s an awful feeling.

“I’m sorry,” I manage, stepping away from him. “That was my mistake. It won’t happen again.” I press the phone into his hand and walk myself out past the plastic and the dust, chin up. I keep the ‘good-daughter smile’ bolted to my face until the elevator doors close and I can finally let it crack.

What did I do?

I stare at my reflection in the elevator’s brushed steel, throat tight. For the first time since I got to this town, I feel exactly like I always have. Labeled. Judged.

My father’s daughter.

The doors open on my floor and I don’t cry until they close again behind me.

Eighteen.

Rhett

The second the elevator doors close on her, I can breathe again—and I hate myself for it.

I turn back to the floor. Every man on my crew suddenly finds something to do with their hands. Nail guns start back up. The saw screams to life. But I feel it, the tension still coursing through the room, the gossip lingering on the tip of their tongues.

The owner’s daughter. Up here. She had Rhett Montgomery’s phone.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand down my face and try to find the thread of what I was doing—the framing layout I was walking Levi through—but my mind is scattered. All I can see is Shea’s face. The way it changed, her smile falling, the way she walked away felt like an armor in itself I can’t begin to repair.

I did that.

No, she did that, showing up here like that. She had to know how it’d look. Didn’t she? A woman that sharp, she has to…

“Mr. Montgomery.” Jenn materializes at my elbow with her damn clipboard again and a curious brow. “I had no idea you knew Miss Winton personally.”

Every muscle in my back goes tight. “She’s a client,” I say. “I’m helping her with a restoration on a place in town.”

“How wonderful.” Jenn’s head tilts, and I watch the question form behind her eyes a half-second before she asks it. “Though, I have to ask, how did Miss Winton end up with your phone?”

My pulse roars in my ears. Say something, anything that isn’t the truth. “Must’ve left it at the job site in town,” I manage. “She was just returning it.”

“Ah.” Her smile doesn’t move, but something in it sharpens. “Of course.”

I swallow. She knows, or she’s wondering, at the very least. And wondering, from a woman who reports straight to Shea’s father, is almost worse.

This is exactly what my mother was talking about.

Thankfully, Jenn’s phone rings. “I have to take this. We’ll reconvene on the millwork numbers this afternoon.” Then she’s gone, heels clicking toward the elevator, phone to her ear.

I blow out a weighted breath and try to return my focus to the numbers on the table between me and my brother. Levi doesn’t say anything for a long time. When I finally glance up, he’s not smiling. Shit. This ain’t good.

If there’s one thing about Levi, it’s that he’s always grinning.