to know. That stung. But I didn’t want to talk about that either.
I slid the pictures back across the table and put them in my wallet. “Thanks. I guess… I just wanted to make sure it was really her.”
“Of course you did,” she said. “Tell you what, honey, let me buy you breakfast.”
“Thanks, but I have a lot of work to do.”
I stood and she followed. Before I could turn and head for the door, she wrapped me in a hug. I was so startled, I just stood there for a second, not sure what to do. Then I put my arms around her and patted her on the back before she let go and stepped back. Great, now I had two women in my family forcing hugs on me.
“Have a good day, Gibson,” she said with a smile.
I cleared my throat and gave her a short nod. “You too.”
Ignoring the whispers of the other diners, I left and drove home. I knew people were talking, but fuck ’em. They could say what they wanted.
I hadn’t been lying; I did have work to do. My workshop was in a metal pole building I’d constructed next to my house. It smelled of sawdust and wood stain. Granny Louisa was finally replacing her kitchen cabinets. Devlin had hired Scarlett to do a lot of work on Granny Louisa’s outdated house already, but they were just now tackling the kitchen. They’d chosen a nice maple, the design simple and classic.
My stomach growled while I worked. I probably should have taken Jenny up on that offer of breakfast or grabbed something on the way home. But I had too much on my mind. I felt on edge, like a rubber band pulled too tight.
I worked until lunch, then took a break. By the time I got back to it in the early afternoon, I’d buried most of my feelings in sawdust and sweat. If Maya was Callie, at least I’d gotten a glimpse of her. She was alive, and there was relief in that.
And why did it matter? She wasn’t an ex-girlfriend—not the one who got away. She’d been my friend for a couple of summers when we were both young. Whether or not I had the chance to see her again didn’t impact my life. I didn’t know why I was so bent out of shape about it.
I put the sander down and took off my goggles. The cabinets were coming along nicely. I brushed the sawdust off my hands—some of it, anyway—and shook out my shirt. I needed some water.
There were two reasons I’d become a custom cabinetmaker. One, I could be my own boss. I’d discovered early on that me and authority didn’t get on so well, and I was smart enough to realize I needed a way to make a living where I didn’t have to answer to someone else. Just my apprenticeship had nearly killed me.
Two, I could work alone, in a workshop at my house. Work with my hands, only have to leave to do client installations, and no boss to answer to? Dream job.
I went inside the house and got some water. While I was there, I checked my phone. I had a text from Scarlett telling me—not asking—to come to breakfast at Moonshine in the morning. I didn’t bother replying. I’d go if I felt like it.
A faint sound came from outside, a car pulling up my driveway. I groaned. Now what? I really needed to put a gate at the entrance to my property. With a lock.
I debated whether or not to answer. The engine stopped. Car door closed. Whoever it was, they’d be knocking in a few seconds. It might be a reporter wanting the dirt on my visit to the sheriff’s office. Or another one of those record company dipshits. I had nothing to say to either of them.
But no one knocked.
I put my empty glass down and glowered at the door. What were they doing out there? Wandering around my property? Maybe it was a nosy reporter. They might be walking around, taking pictures. I hadn’t locked my workshop. Damn it, were they over there? I didn’t like people in my space, especially people I hadn’t invited.
In a few strides, I was at the front door. I threw it open, ready to rush outside and kick the nosy son of a bitch off my land.
It wasn’t a reporter.
The woman from last night—Maya—stood on the step, her eyes wide. Her multicolored hair was