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My stomach does something it has no business doing.

"Think I've met him."

"You'll see him plenty. Three times a week like clockwork. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday." Bev peers over her glasses with the measured appraisal of a woman who's been reading people across this counter for decades. "Don't let that smile fool you. That boy runs Gabe Jackson's entire operation. Timber, livestock, crew schedules, fence rotations, budget, equipment maintenance, all of it. Youngest foreman they've ever had, and nobody on that property outworks him. Not Luke, not Hunter, nobody."

Filed under: information not requested, not needed, absolutely not relevant to anything. Back to the register.

The afternoon passes in uncomplicated rhythm. Learning the difference between chicken scratch and layer pellets. Memorizing which bin holds the timothy hay and which one holds the orchard grass. The ancient cash register with a sticky four key and a drawer that only opens if you hip-check the counter at exactly the right angle while pressing enter.

Fifty-pound bags that make my shoulders burn honest. Good burn. The kind that lives in the muscle and says you did something today that mattered, even if that something was moving grain from point A to point B.

Bev shows me grandkid photos on a phone she can barely operate. Four of them. The youngest just started walking into things. She doesn't ask a single personal question. Doesn't ask where I'm from, why I'm here, whether there's a husband somewhere. Just shows me the feed system, lets me lift the bags, and treats me like a person whose past is her own business.

This is the boring I ordered. This is exactly what I came for.

Then, at three forty-seven, the bell jingles.

He fills the doorframe the way October fills a valley. Slow, golden, impossible to ignore. Same dark curls without the sawdust this time. Same warm brown eyes that found mine in the deli and took a reading I wasn't ready for. Different flannel, green this time, sleeves rolled past forearms roped with muscle and streaked with chainsaw oil. A list in one hand, a paper bag in the other.

"Bev." Hat tipped. "Looking beautiful as ever."

"Oh, stop it." She's blushing. Sixty-three years old, raised on a ranch, ran a business for forty years, and blushing because a twenty-seven-year-old tipped his hat.

"Order's staged out back. Need help loading?"

"No, ma'am, I'll grab it. Got the truck backed up already." His eyes slide to me. The grin goes softer. Not the big flashy one from the deli. Something more careful. Respectful. Like he learned something from the way I left and he's adjusting. "Hey, Selene."

"Hey."

Two syllables. Flat expression. Nothing else. Because the plan does not include lumberjacks with kind eyes and forearms that look like they were carved from the same wood he spends his days splitting.

The paper bag hits the counter.

"Turkey club. Fresh. Sal made it special." He nudges it toward me with two fingers. "Figured you might still be hungry, since somebody ruined your lunch today."

"That somebody was you."

"Which is why I brought the replacement. My mama raised me right, Selene. Stole your sandwich, couldn't sit with that. Made Sal fix it before I left."

My stomach growls. Audible. Undeniable. His grin goes nuclear.

"That's a yes from your stomach, at least."

"Biological response. Doesn't speak for me."

He laughs. Full, real, completely unguarded. The kind of laugh that fills a room and makes other people want to join in even if they don't know the joke. "Fair enough. It'll be here if biology overrules pride." Two taps on the counter, grab the clipboard from Bev, back door.

Not eating the sandwich while he loads his truck. Absolutely not. Not eating it while Bev rings up his order and chatters about how the fall festival Gabe's planning is going to be the biggest thing this town has seen since the mill closed in ninety-three. Not eating it while he talks about clearing timber for the festival grounds, milling booth frames from cedar, building a stage by the pumpkin patch that Anna's been tending since August.

Not eating it while he walks past me, pauses, and says, "Cranberry aioli. Sal's secret weapon. Criminal to let it go cold."

Eating it the second his truck pulls out of the lot.

Leaning against the back counter with the cat watching me from the register, one eye open, maximum judgment.

Best sandwich I've ever had. Infuriating.

Chapter Three