I turn, but before I’m able to walk away, he reaches out to touch my arm, stopping me.
“Tell your mom I said hi,” he adds, softer.
For a second, the air seems to grow thick. “She won’t remember.”
He swallows and then gives a slight nod. “Tell her anyway.”
I make myself turn, make myself move up the walk. The porch boards creak under my weight with the sounds of its familiar complaints. At the door, I glance back without meaning to. He’s already knelt again, prying, focused, jaw tight.
I step inside, and the door snicks shut against the cold. A moment later, a nail gun goes off. My heartbeat answers it, loud in my ears.
Damien is back.
Shit.
Chapter Two
Damien
The door sticks like it’s trying to keep me out. Figures.
I shove harder, wood scraping wood, until the hinges groan and the stale air hits me. It smells like dust, old salt, and the faint bite of mildew from the upstairs bathroom I haven’t opened yet. It’s the same smell it had the day my parents left, only sharper from years of being shut tight.
“You weren’t kidding,” Ronnie says behind me. “This place isn’t just a renovation project… it’s a total gut job.”
“Understatement,” I grunt, stepping over the threshold. The foyer creaks under my boots.
Ronnie’s already got his tool bag slung over one shoulder and a grin like he’s thrilled to get his hands on this disaster. He’s built lean, wiry, with a buzz cut that makes him look younger than he is. We’ve worked enough jobs together that I know his rhythm—he talks too much, works fast, and can disappear without warning when his phone rings.
“I’ve only got you for three days,” I remind him, heading toward the front room. “So don’t start telling me about all the ways you’d ‘open up the space.’ We’re not doing that.”
He laughs. “You’re no fun. Thought this was gonna be one of those full HGTV, knock-out-walls-and-install-skylights deals.”
“Yeah, well, you thought wrong. We’re just getting it sale-ready. Though… yeah, it’s gonna need quite a bit to even get it up to today’s standards. Damn.”
He sets his bag down with a thump. “Man, you could’ve stayed in the city and picked up a loft renovation that pays triple.”
“Could’ve,” I say, running my hand over the cracked molding, “but my parents want this place off their hands before spring. And we’re splitting the proceeds. So the less people I have to pay, the more I get to keep.”
The words,and I want out of this town before I choke on it,hang silent in my head.
Ronnie whistles low, scanning the peeling wallpaper, the sagging doorframes. “You really grew up here?”
“Yeah.” I don’t elaborate. The less we dig into the history here, the better.
He quickly moves outside and reaches the truck, grunting as he takes down the tools we need. The view from my parents’ front porch takes me back to another time. Back then, Aaron Hart would’ve been here too, giving me crap for the way I cut boards for the tree house we built one summer, tossing a hammer like it was a baseball. I force the memory out before it takes root.
“Where do you want me, boss man?” Ronnie asks, snapping open his measuring tape.
“Start with the foyer trim. I’ll keep ripping out the rotting boards on the porch.”
He nods, still glancing around like he’s trying to picture what this place looked like when people actually lived here. I know exactly what it looked like. The image is burned in my head of my mom’s potted ferns by the window, my dad’s boots by the door, Colton’s football gear dumped in the corner. It’s easier to think about the work than the past.
I kneel by the entryway, pry bar in hand, and the next board comes up with a scream of nails. Years of dust and dirt come up, too.
Ronnie’s humming something under his breath, already pulling nails like we’re on a timer. “Three days, man. You’d better have a beer fridge in here or I’m charging you overtime.”
“Fridge is unplugged for now. But you’ll survive.”
