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“Very professional.”

“Don’t ruin your only good idea.”

“Had at least two.”

I smiled and put both sheets together.

“I’m making a copy.”

“Expected nothing less.”

“Private folder. Not the event drive.”

“Please. Wyatt’s got enough to read.”

I laughed hard enough that I had to put the paper down.

Cash laughed with me.

For a few seconds, the room held nothing more complicated than that.

Then a horse banged a bucket in the barn, with the sustained outrage of an animal whose personal service standard had declined.

Cash looked toward the window.

“Nickel’s filing a complaint.”

Cash stood.

The movement brought us back to the day waiting outside. Work boots. Water figures. The replacement coupling. The things that had continued existing while we discussed what I might want after nine.

I gathered the agreement separately from the haulage sheets.

I carried it to the back room and slid it into the inside pocket of my bag.

Then I stood there looking at the bag.

It had remained ready to leave since the day I arrived. Shoes at the bottom. Toiletries in a zip pouch. The small habits of someone who never quite unpacked because unpacking suggested confidence about tomorrow.

I took out a clean shirt.

That wasn’t a declaration.

It was a clean shirt.

I changed anyway, folded the one I had slept in, and put it on the shelf.

When I returned, Cash had the site plan under one arm.

His gaze moved over me and returned to my face.

Not hurriedly enough to hide it.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

My stomach did something deeply unprofessional.

“Ready?” he asked.