Page 72 of South of The Skyway

For what was essentially a closet conversion, she’d made it functional, neat, and tidy. As much as I’d prefer to watch her work or snoop around her space, when ten minutes passed and then twenty, I sucked down air, leaned over to kiss her cheek, and extricated myself from a now sleeping pup. Who the hell was I to interrupt her while she was in the zone?

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, alright?”

“Um, yeah, I–I think I’m almost done.” She winced, forcing her eyes up to me. “It’s all kind of just pouring out, you know? I want to see you, though.” Even as the words left her lips, her eyes went a bit glossy. She drummed her pen against her knee, glancing back down to the scattered sheets of paper. Elora would call this a divine download, and she’d kick my ass for interrupting in the first place. That thought, combined with the comically adorable scrunch of her nose, made me chuckle.

“I won’t be far,” I promised. Just outside, unloading the truck.”

“I’m sorry, Rhyett, I just…”

“Hey,” I lowered my gaze to meet hers as it flicked from the sheets to me, a flush creeping up her skin. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”

“Are you sure?”

I smiled, nodding. “You’re on a roll, Ace. Keep it rolling.”

“Okay,” she said on a harsh exhale, shoulders relaxing as she dropped her focus back to her work.

On my way out, I noticed the red light of the coffee pot still glowed brightly in the dusk light and thick shadows. I chuckled, wandering behind the counter to find a mug, and poured the remaining serving into it. Took it back to her.

“Did you know the coffee pot was still on?”

“Uh-huh, drank it.”

“Dra—youdrankit? Like the whole thing?”

“Yup.”

“Trying to test the full capacity of your heart, or is this an experiment in cortisol tolerance?”

“Gotta stay fo-cused.” She disjointed the syllables as her eyes narrowed and her fingers resumed a frantic scrawl across the paper. Chuckling, I shook my head, admiring the determination in the set of her jaw. Fuck, she was cute.

“Alright, baby. You focus. I’m going to get my work done across the street. When you come out of lightning girl’s head, come get me. I’ll take you two home.”

“Hmmm.”

Not entirely convinced she’d actually registered what I said, I set the coffee down beside her and kissed the top of her head before moving for the door. Did she have any idea how deeply her claws had sunk into me? Not even my high school sweetheart had acquired the death grip this woman had on my heart. And we’d been on again, off again, for years until I thought better of the dating game. For the last decade and a half, I’d kept thinking better of it. At least until I’d watched this little blonde sink darts in a board like she’d been born with them in between her delicate fingers.

I didn’t particularly care for leaving her there alone with an unlocked front door, but I supposed if I left mine open, I’d hear any commotion, thanks to Royal. Did she always linger with the front door unlocked? I’d have to remedy that.

The speakeasy was moving along at that tantalizingly glacial pace all renovations did. Things continuously had to look worse every day before they started to improve. Demolition had been a satisfying–though messy–process, but it was mostly complete, thank all that was holy. In place of total chaos was a beautiful blank slate. Drywall had been hung, patched, mudded and textured on the new frames. Plumbing and electric had wrapped up on schedule for the first time in history.

Clem had been over the moon excited to see the restored floors in what was beginning to look like a lounge. “You got vision, kid,” she said on the tail end of a whistle, raising a hand to cover her mouth as she surveyed all the progress. “Is that a record player?”

“You know it,” I’d quipped back. “Only way to get it right for the atmosphere.”

“Don’t you go pulling more people into my damn state, young man.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “I solemnly swear to target locals.”

“Good,” she said, rotating to take in all the details. It was a strangely satisfying stamp of approval to tuck in my back pocket for less productive days. She’d swung by with a little crate of strawberries the next day but didn't bother to hide her snooping eyes as she popped in to deliver them. Her garden, it seemed, was benefiting from her offloading this fiasco to me. Which I thought was wise until I rolled back in this late, exhaustion in my bones.

Glancing back across the street, I decided that my paranoia was irrational and that Brexley was perfectly safe forty yards from my open glass door. So I put on a hat, connected to my speaker, and queued up my work playlist. Nostalgia ate at my heels when Paul McCartney’s “Calico Skies” came on first. Humming along to the familiar tune, I pried open the paint bucket. Mixed it until my hand threatened to rebel and filled the fresh tray.

The first patch of drywall confirmed what I already knew—the deep charcoal against the exposed brick walls would look fucking incredible. Clem’s original spill had encouraged the idea, the color pallets reversing between the cigar room and the main bar. She would be freaking tickled if I could send her a progress report with the brand-new painted walls before I left tonight.

Confidence and determination lit a fire beneath me as I put my head down and got to work. Only the ache of my forearm and the tremble in my hand told me how long I’d been rolling and pouring layer after layer into that tray when Brexley’s presence snagged my attention from the project. I turned to find her face disgruntled, mouth parted in something like disdain.

“Figures,” she said, shaking her head. “Knew it was some out-of-state investor.”

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