Page 12 of Our Bay Will Come

Me: Good bones. Great light. The view's not bad, either.

Fox: You talking about the room or me?

Me: Modest as always, I see.

Fox: Just fishing for compliments from a beautiful woman.

I bite my lip, hesitating before typing:

Me: You have sawdust in your hair.

Fox: Now I'm self-conscious. Hold on.

A minute later, another photo arrives. It's clearly taken in what must be a job site bathroom, with hair now somewhat tamed and a face washed. He's attempting a serious expression, but there's a hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Fox: Better?

The flutter in my stomach turns into something more like a swarm of butterflies.

Me: Worse. Now I can see your face clearly.

Fox: Ouch. And here I thought you found me somewhat attractive.

Me: I find lots of things "somewhat attractive." Sunsets. Puppies. Abstract art.

Fox: Are you comparing me to abstract art?

Me: If the incomprehensible canvas fits...

Fox: You're deflecting with humor again.

I stare at the screen, startled by his directness. Most guys would have continued the banter, never calling me out on using humor as a shield. But Fox sees through it, just like he did that night at his cabin when I tried to leave before morning.

Before I can formulate a response, the office door chimes. The Morgans are here, looking polished and expectant.

Me: Clients just arrived. Talk later.

I slip my phone into my desk drawer and stand, professional smile firmly in place. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, so good to see you again."

For the next hour, I'm all business, walking them through options, sketching quick alternatives when Mrs. Morgan hesitates over the geometric print, and answering questions about the timeline and budget. It's the part of my job I love—translating someone else's vision into reality, solving the puzzle of their needs versus their wants.

When they leave, having selected the herringbone (as I suspected they would), Rory gives me an approving nod.

"Nice save with the window treatment suggestion. I thought the client would bolt when you showed her the first price estimate."

"Rich people are still cheap," I say with a shrug. "They just hide it better."

I return to my desk and retrieve my phone, surprised to find three new messages.

Fox: Good luck with the clients.

Fox: For the record, I wasn't just talking about the sex either when I said I miss you.

Fox: I miss the way you see things. How you notice details others don't. How you call me on my bullshit without being mean about it. And yeah, I miss your face, too.

I stare at the screen, something uncomfortably like longing tightening my chest. This is precisely what I was afraid of—a genuine connection. It's so much easier when it's just physical attraction. That, I know how to handle. This is trickier territory.

"So?" Rory appears beside me again, holding her coat and bag again. "Morgans all set?"

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