Page 7 of Ten Hammers

I leave her and jog across the street.

Why do I keep wasting my time with women like Cynthia Sinclair, when what I really want is a woman like Winnie?

You don’t want a woman like Winnie, that annoying little voice creeps into my head. A woman like Winnie doesn’t exist. Winnie is one of a kind.

I want Winnie. It’s not the first time I’ve had the thought. And it won’t be the last, I’m sure. But as far as romance goes, between Winnie and me, that’s not an option.

But.

I can’t deny how damn much I’m going to miss her when she’s not a constant presence in my life. The show has been the glue keeping her with all of my brothers and me. Keeping all of us in the same place at the same time. Suddenly, I want a ninth season more than I want my privacy back.

Could I convince them to go for one more?

Nah. The triplets are done with the show, more so than I am. It wouldn’t be fair to try to twist their arms into agreeing to keep going. We agreed it had to be unanimous.

Us and our damn agreements.

I head back into the house, planning to get back upstairs where I was installing the recessed lighting fixtures before Cynthia showed up. But I hear something in the powder room off the kitchen. I edge closer to the door, and, yep, there are undeniable soft sobs coming from inside.

Rapping lightly with my knuckles, I whisper, “Win? Is that you?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, but I know it’s her.

It takes a moment for her to open the door. She was trying to gather herself, to hide the fact that she was crying, but her red-rimmed eyes tell the tale and my heart pains from her obvious distress.

Win, you don’t have to hide your tears from me. You don’t have to hide anything from me.

I don’t dare say those words out loud. She’d probably roll her eyes and tell me that after we wrap, I should try my hand at writing romance novels.

“Hey,” I gently say, concern lacing my voice. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

She takes a shuddering breath, attempting to compose herself. “I’m not,” she argues, but a tumult of emotion surges behind her eyes.

I gather her into my arms, breathing in her strawberry-scented hair. She sinks into me, all soft curves and sweetness. I’ll never get tired of how it feels to hold her.

Fuck, maybe I should try my hand at writing romance novels.

“Winifred,” I say, a warning note in my voice. Winnie isn’t short for anything.

“Jackhole,” she retorts with a snuffly laugh, pressing her forehead against my chest.

“Oof. Not Jackson or Jackmire, even? Straight to Jackhole?” I stroke her back, then add, serious and gentle, “Tell me. I’m here for you.”

But she doesn’t answer.

It kills me that she won’t tell me what’s weighing on her heart.

The soft glow of the pendant lights above the sink create a serene ambiance, and I decide to lighten the mood for her.

“This house is turning out really beautiful. What a shame it’ll never be as elegant and sophisticated as the first house we ever built.”

She tenses just a fraction, and I bite back my smile.

“You remember it, I hope,” I continue. “It was the epitome of rustic and you gave it the perfect little kitchen, complete with toy stove to bake mud pies…”

I can feel the pull of her cheeks as she smiles against my chest, remembering the tree house we built for her in our backyard when we were kids. A sanctuary for her and her alone.

“You’ve come a long way since your infamous treehouse building days,” she says.

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