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My phone rings again. This time it’s Meredith’s name on the screen.

“Griffin? I hate to do this to you. We’ve got an issue with the Doran permit for the Thanksgiving market.”

“What kind of issue?”

“The county says his application was never processed, and he’s absolutely insisting he mailed it three weeks ago. I need you here to sign off on the emergency reissue before five, or we’re going to have a very upset leatherworker with a lot of unsold inventory.”

I close my eyes.

“I’m on my way.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’ll be there soon.”

I hang up.

Fox is already watching me.

“I’m sorry. I have to go back to the office.”

“Griffin, why are you sorry? It’s your job.”

“I just⁠—”

“I’ll be here,” he says, like this is the most normal thing for us.

I put on my coat and gather my things.

“Text me when you’re on your way home.”

“Okay.”

He kisses me at the door. Nothing showy. Just a quick press of his mouth against mine with his hand at my jaw.

I take the stairs down slower than I came up.

CHAPTER EIGHT

FOX

It’s not even five-thirty, and the sky has already given up. Winterberry in mid-November doesn’t do slow sunsets. It does gray, then grayer, then dark, all in the space of about forty minutes.

I’m at the living room window, watching snow drift down under the streetlight across the road. Fresh flakes on top of last week’s snow, which never quite melted.

I finished cooking about ten minutes ago. Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, a little sauce I made from the drippings, and some wine we had in the fridge. It’s all on low heat, waiting.

The table is set, but I’m too restless to sit. Instead, I’m waiting to see Finn’s familiar face crossing the road.

When did I become the kind of man who waits for his man to come home?

I swore a long time ago that I wouldn’t be that guy, and here I am.

My phone buzzes on the windowsill.

Finn:

Home in five. I need a drink.