Page 51 of Restored By You

“So, you spent the night with her,” he says.

I shake my head. “Not now, man.”

“Nah, I’ll make this quick,” he starts, hands on the table. “You do realize you just talked to your girl like she was a fucking code violation, right?”

My jaw locks. “She showed up on the job, Levi. On this job. In front of the fucking general manager, in front of everybody.” I jab a thumb at the room. “You know what that shit looks like?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I know exactly what it looks like. A pretty woman who likes you a whole hell of a lot went out of her way to bring you your phone you left at her place.” He lets that sit for a smug beat. “That’s what it looked like from where I stood, anyhow.”

“That’s not—” I drag a hand through my hair. “Contractor sleeps with owner’s daughter on big resort contract is a pretty solid gossip headline for this town, if you ask me. One wrong word to Winton and we’re done, Levi. Both of us. Everything we’ve built.”

“Uh-huh. So you’re saying you protected the job.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think for one second about the fact that she came up here, fuckin’ glowing, because she was excited to see you?” His voice stays even, which is worse than if he yelled. “And you sent her off like she was somethin’ you needed to get off your site before anybody noticed.”

The words hit deep. “I had to think about the job,” I say, but it comes out weaker now. A man trying to convince himself.

“You know how long I’ve been lookin’ for what you got?” His voice is low, rough at the edges. “How many bad dates, how many wrong women, how many nights I come home to an empty house telling myself the next one is gonna stick?” He shakes his head. “And you weren’t even trying. You stopped trying all together. Then this woman somehow sees you, man. She cares about you. You know what I’d give for that?”

I don’t have an answer. And I don’t think he wants one.

“Yeah, sure, you protected the job. Congratulations. Hope the presidential suites keep you warm at night.” He points a finger at my chest. “Don’t fuck this up because you’re scared of what people will say. You know better than anyone, they’ll say some shit regardless.”

He walks off before I can respond.

And I stand here in the guts of the biggest building in Whitetail, on the biggest job of my life, feeling like the smallest man in Montana.

The whole drive down the mountain I rehearse it and none of it sounds right. I panicked. I was protecting the job. I’m sorry. Every version has a ‘but’ in it, and I know, thanks to my brother, that the second there’s a ‘but,’ it’s not an apology anymore—it’s an excuse wearing a nicer shirt.

I stop at Gino’s and get a pizza, half pepperoni for Tyler, and a dozen wings, and then I drive the extra few minutes out of the way to Cup O’ Joe before they close and get the largest caramel latte they’ll pour.

A peace offering.

The Hargrove porch light is on when I pull up. Through the front window I can see her—curls piled up, one of Tyler’s hoodies swallowing her whole, a paintbrush in one hand—working at the fireplace we spent all last week prepping. Even from here the sight of her lands in my chest like a fist.

I don’t know what she’s thinking, but all I know is, I have to make this right.

I take a deep breath and grab the food. The door’s unlocked and the smell of wood stain hits me the second I step in, along with something low and sad playing from her phone speaker. She doesn’t turn around.

“Hey.”

She goes still, the brush pausing mid stroke. She doesn’t spare me a glance. “Hey.”

“Where’s Tyler?” I ask, setting the food down on the built-in window seat. I keep her drink in hand, hoping she’ll look my way.

“He’s hanging out with Willa.”

“I brought pizza.” I clear my throat. “And this…caramel-thing.” I give the iced drink a little shake to rattle the ice.

That gets her to turn.

And goddammit if her eyes aren’t red rimmed. She looks at me, the food, and the drink in my hand with an expression that guts me worse than if she’d just thrown the brush at my head.

“You brought me an iced caramel latte,” she says flatly.

“Shea—”