Page 13

“I want several spreadsheets, pivot tables, and a map with transparent overlays.”

“I may be in love with her,” he tells Theo.

Warmth sweeps over my cheeks.

Theo’s gaze settles on me. “Get in line.”

The words are quiet, almost rough, and every bit of peppermint in my scent seems to lift at once.

Ezra watches from the porch with an expression that belongs on a man observing his favorite romantic comedy.

“You’re making a face again,” I tell Ezra.

“Oh yeah, I definitely am.”

Theo opens the front door. “Inside.”

The house greets me with cool air, beeswax, coffee, and the mineral freshness of the channel. Pine floors stretch beneath tall windows. Botanical prints line the entry hall, and a row of rusted keys hangs beside the door on little brass hooks. The front room opens around us in layers. A broad sofa faces a stone fireplace. Boots wait beneath a bench near the door, one pair heavy and black, the other narrow and brown. Two mugs sit on the low table, one stained with coffee, the other painted with tiny blue waves. I notice the second mug before I can stop myself.

Ezra shrugs. “I still drink coffee. Mostly for morale.”

“Can you taste it?”

“Sometimes. Theo makes it every morning anyway.”

Theo turns toward the kitchen, but not before I catch the way his eyes soften. The tenderness between them lives here, in a mug prepared for a man who may or may not be able to lift it. My chest warms so quickly that I lower my face to the notebook.

“I would like to test that too,” I say.

Ezra’s smile returns, quieter now. “Coffee?”

“Your sensory consistency.”

“Tragic. I thought you were asking me on a coffee date.”

My face heats. “I can test two variables.”

Ezra laughs, bright and surprised, while Theo opens a cupboard with more force than necessary.

I take three steps farther inside and forget I was tired. I drift toward crowded shelves and a table filled with open books, river rocks, and stacks of landscape prints in plastic sleeves. I move closer before manners can catch me. Beside the landscapes is an open sketchbook. The drawings are beautiful. One hand grips a rope. Another curls around a chipped cup. A third rests open, palm raised, every line rendered with tender attention.

“Yours?” I ask Ezra.

He nods.

“Digital artist,” Theo says as he sets my bag beside the sofa. “He sketches first.”

Ezra comes to stand beside me. “Commercial work pays the bills. Postcards, landscapes, festival prints. Theo keeps insisting the private work belongs in a gallery.”

“It does,” Theo says from the kitchen with the certainty of a fact already settled.

Ezra’s face softens.

I look back at the page. “He’s right.”

For a second, Ezra studies me. Then the sketchpad flips itself shut.

I jump.