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“You should put something on that,” I said.

He looked down at the blister as if it belonged to someone else. “It’s fine.”

“It’s going to get worse if you don’t treat it.”

We stopped outside Winters Wonderland. Through the window, Jenna was ringing up a customer while two more browsed the ornament wall.

“Do you have first-aid supplies?” he asked.

I kept a first-aid kit beneath the register because glass ornaments break and the antique furniture that came with Adele’s business had plenty of sharp corners. I waved him inside and told Jenna we would be in the back office.

I switched on the battery-powered music box out of habit. It had six carols and no volume control. “Jingle Bells” followed me to the back office while I found the ointment and a bandage.

Griffin sat at the antique secretary with the wonky drawer I’d never gotten around to fixing and let me clean the raw skin.

His palm was warm beneath mine. The calluses caught lightly against my fingertips, and his fingers moved once under the bandage. I waited one breath too long before smoothing the tape. Ten forty-five on a Monday morning was no time to calculate how long it had been since I touched a man. “There,” I said, finishing the bandage. “Try not to do any heavy lifting for a few days.”

“That’s not really possible, given my current role.”

I reached for him again. My grandmother used to kiss every bandage she put on me and swear it made the medicine work faster. Before good sense arrived, I steadied his wrist and pressed my lips to the white gauze.

Griffin went still, and I did too. “My grandmother did that,” I said. “It was medical.”

“Of course.” His voice had gone rough. “Did it work?”

“It worked when I was six.” I let go. “Then tape it when you shower and keep it dry.” I set the roll beside him. “Take this. You strike me as someone who considers basic wound care an inefficient use of time.”

“That assessment is accurate.”

I stepped back. “And thank you. For today. For asking questions instead of telling me how to fix things.”

He examined the neat white wrap. “I need to tell you two things,” he said. “The first one is good. Please let me finish it before you start waiting for the bad one.”

“That’s not how anyone has ever listened to anything.”

“I know.” He rested his wrist on the desk. “I’m canceling the demolition of those three buildings. The feed store, the old pharmacy, and the corner unit will be renovated instead of replaced. That decision is final. You don’t have to thank me for it.”

I opened my mouth and he kept going, which should have been my first warning.

“The second thing is your building. It needs a separate decision.”

“My building is fine.”

“Your building has a footing that’s moved three-eighths of an inch since the last survey and a panel that would fail any inspection anyone ever bothered to do.” His voice didn’t rise. That was the worst part. “I can fix it. I’d like to fix it. It’s six weeks of work and the shop has to be empty for five of them.”

The furnace ticked. Behind me, the music box reached the end of the song and went silent.

“Five weeks,” I said. “You want me closed for five weeks.”

“I want you open in ten years.”

“I make sixty-one percent of my year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve.” I set the ointment down before I could throw it. “You’ve read my roof, Griffin. Read my books. Five weeks closed isn’t a renovation. It’s a eulogy with a permit.”

“I’ve read what the management company turned over: three years of sales summaries, rent history, and late notices. It isn’t a happy file.” He didn’t apologize for that either. “I’m not asking you to close this December. I’m telling you what the work is, because you are going to hear it from someone eventually and I would rather it be me.”

“From who?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and that was the answer. “I’m registered in Oregon as a structural engineer, and Cole Development holds an active commercial contractor license with the required insurance,” he said. “I signed and stamped an assessment on that building Friday afternoon. That’s not a threat. It’s a fact about my profession. Once I put my name on a life-safety defect, I can’t pretend I didn’t find it. Any repair would use our insured crew, and a licensed electrician would own the panel work.”