A little louder. “Beth?”
Eventually, there’s a muffled rustle, then the door cracks open. Beth peers out, hair wild, eyes heavy with sleep.
“What time is it?” she asks, voice groggy.
“Just after seven.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why?”
I offer a lopsided grin. “Got donuts.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just blinks, then straightens. “You got donuts?” she repeats, as if confirming I can’t possibly be serious.
“All kinds,” I say.
She lets out a reluctant laugh and backs into her room. “Five minutes,” she promises.
When she shows up in the kitchen, her hair is pulled back and she’s traded pajamas for a sweater and jeans. I’ve set out coffee and plates, trying not to make it obvious that I care too much about whether she eats.
Beth stops short at the spread. “You made coffee, too?”
“I thought you might want some.” I keep it casual.
She steps closer to inspect the donuts. “What kinds?”
“Every kind they had,” I say. I mean it—whatever her favorite is, I want it here.
It earns me a brief, genuine smile—the day’s first victory.
We sit together at the table. While I nurse my coffee, she uses small, careful bites to demolish a cinnamon twist. The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s charged. Neither of us mentions the kiss from yesterday. I won’t push. She needs space.
I let the quiet linger until it’s time to head for the garage.
We pull around back, and Henry’s already there, propped against the workbench with coffee in hand.
He offers a dry look when Beth steps out beside me. “Didn’t think you’d scare her off quite this fast.”
Beth snorts, sharp and clear. “I’m tougher than I look.”
Henry grins, and I’m grateful for the lightness. Beth surveys the garage—organized chaos, the scent of oil and dust in the air.
“So, what’s the plan?” she asks.
I gesture to her car near the lift. “I’ll get started on it. The part should arrive later, but I can check the rest.”
She nods, but after an hour of me and Henry crawling over her engine, Beth seems restless, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on her thigh.
“Bored?” I ask.
She sighs. “A little bit.”
Henry perks up. “How are you with numbers?”
Beth brightens. “I’m an accountant.”
He exchanges a look with me, opportunity knocking. “Perfect. Our books are a mess.” He gestures to a shoebox of receipts beside the computer.
Beth straightens. “You want me to take a look?”
