Page 170 of Show Me

“I compared the pig to you.”

“That somehow feels worse.”

I shrug. “I said what I said.”

His laugh follows me into the pen. Warm. Easy. The kind that makes the cold evening feel a little less chilly. I smile, but my gaze drifts briefly past the pen. Tree line. Fence. Nothing there. I check again.

Inside, Xavier shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on the stack of trim boards propped against the wall before settling on me. “What’re we tackling tonight?”

I glance around the kitchen, tapping a finger against my chin like I'm debating it. “The window trim.”

He follows my gaze, then bends to flip open the toolbox with a practiced snap. “Good choice.”

The next hour passes the way most evenings have lately. One of us measures. The other cuts. He hands me the nail gun without asking. I already know which pencil is his. He already knows where I keep the wood filler.

Somewhere along the way, we stopped explaining things. We just.... Work.

He’s holding one end of the trim while I line up the other when our shoulders bump. “You keep drifting into my workspace.”

“This is my house.”

“Technicality.”

I roll my eyes. “You're lucky you're useful.”

“I hear that a lot.”

I reach for the hammer at the same time he does. Our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away.

He winks. “Ladies first.”

“I’ve seen you steal the last cinnamon roll.”

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “That was survival.”

“It was selfish.”

“Worth it.”

I laugh as he hugs me and then lets me go again. It comes easier than it should. Like this. Like us. The thought settles heavier than I want it to.

I keep my attention on the trim as he snatches up the hammer. “So....” The word slips out before I can stop it.

He glances over. “So?”

I force myself to keep my attention on the wall. “Our friends.”

His hammer pauses. “What about them?”

“They kept looking at us like they suspect something is going on.”

Silence. Just long enough for me to wish I hadn't said anything. “They’ll get over it.”

“Right.” I swallow hard.

‘They’ll get over it.’ Will they? Or are they just seeing what I’ve been trying not to? That I’m building this up into something it isn’t, and the fall is going to be epic. The real question is, will I get over it?

He goes back to the trim. Like the conversation is over. Like it isn't sitting in the middle of the room with us.