“I’ll be here.”
His gaze flicked to the ledger on the desk. Blank page, neat date across the top. He liked that she hadn’t filled it with false names. He liked that she talked to walls and listened back.
“Rules,” he said. “Lobby stays clear when work starts. Only you, me, and anyone I bring. Volunteers can handle safe tasks.”
“I can manage that.”
“If you need the town involved, give them small wins. Tea hours. Story nights. People like to see progress with their own hands.”
She blinked. “You’ve given this thought.”
“People stay calm if they’ve got something useful to do.”
“Thank you,” she said, and the way she said it carried weight. “I’ll draft a schedule and send it to the Council aide. You’ll look it over?”
“Yeah.”
He stood to mark measurements on the plaster. She drifted closer with the papers, their shoulders brushing again. Heat crawled across his skin, his wolf pressing close. He locked his jaw and kept writing.
“Sorry,” she murmured, not stepping away. “I crowd when I think.”
“It’s fine.”
They worked in companionable silence, trading words only when needed. She asked questions without shame; he answered plain. When he told her a piece of trim was unsalvageable, she winced, then asked if they could reuse it as décor. He said yes. She smiled like he’d given her a gift.
Rain eased outside, leaving the square wrapped in quiet mist. Rowan rolled the plan, slid it into a cardboard tube. “I’ll be back at dawn. North wall first, then stairs.”
“Coffee will be ready,” she said.
He slung his tool bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Back door swells. Use the front if you’re alone. Lock both. If anything feels off, call the Council line.”
Her gaze met his. “Any reason I should expect trouble?”
He breathed out slow. No sense borrowing fear for her yet. “Storms bring opportunists. They like shadows.”
“All right.” Her eyes searched his, measuring him as much as the warning. “Thank you, Rowan.”
He tipped two fingers from the brim of his cap. “Diana.”
The porch met him with the scent of wet leaves and the lake beyond the trees. He told himself again this was just a job. Fix the core. Leave. His wolf didn’t agree. It paced inside him, shoving images into his mind: a warm lobby, names filling the ledger, a woman laughing because she’d finally found her place.
Rowan went down the steps into the rain. He didn’t look back. He already knew the sound of that door closing.
3
DIANA
The sound of hammering pulled Diana from sleep at quarter past six. She lay still, listening to the steady rhythm above her head, then smiled into her pillow. Rowan had said dawn. Apparently, he meant it.
She dressed in jeans and a soft green sweater, braiding her hair back to keep it out of her face. The inn felt different this morning—more alive somehow, purpose thrumming through its bones. Coffee first, then she’d see what progress looked like.
In the kitchen, a note leaned against the sugar bowl in Miriam’s tidy script:Back at nine with stories and tea. Don’t let him work without breakfast. – M.
Diana smiled and put the kettle on. Through the window, Rowan’s truck was parked at an angle that shielded the work area from the morning sun. Thoughtful. She pulled bacon from the fridge and cracked eggs into a bowl.
By eight-thirty, she carried a tray upstairs. Rowan knelt on the landing, prying loose floorboards with a crowbar. His flannel clung damp with sweat despite the cool air, sleeves rolled high to reveal forearms strong with corded muscle. He glanced up, pale eyes catching the light.
“Coffee,” she said, setting the tray on a nearby sawbuck. “And fuel.”
