Split(22)

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Dad snags his keys and pops on a faded baseball hat with the Jennings Contractors logo on it. “Both of you talk like you were raised by bikers.”

My brother grins. “Crabby ole mountain man’ll give a biker’s mouth a run for its money.”

Dad mumbles something that makes Cody laugh and they leave without saying goodbye.

I finally blow the hair out of my eyes and study what is supposed to be a lobby, or it was when I worked here years ago, but now resembles a storage unit. Blueprints scatter every available tabletop, both rolled up and spread open, held down by wrenches, screwdrivers, even a can of WD-40. I plop down at my desk and groan. It’ll take me forever to get this all straightened out.

Only days ago I was at the jumping point of a career-changing event. I chose to drop-kick my own ass right off a cliff rather than do what had to be done and this is my penance. Cleaning up a half decade of crappy bookkeeping and housekeeping for a man who always made me feel like my dreams were too big and my place was in a small pond.

Nash Jennings might be right about a lot of things, but not that. This is a temporary setback that I will rectify as soon as I figure out how. I’m not giving up. Not without a fight.

Several hours after my dad and Cody left, I’m knee-deep in paperwork and contemplating my shitty situation. My blouse is wrinkled and sticks to my skin, suffocating my body like Saran Wrap, and my gray slacks are probably black on the butt from sitting on the filthy carpet, but it was the only clear space to lay everything out.

I flex my fingers and paper cuts hatch-mark my aching digits from rolling blueprints and sorting through invoices. Hunger rumbles in my stomach and I’m about to grab the granola bar from my purse when I hear a vehicle pull up out front. I can’t see it from my position on the floor, but I’m hoping it’s my dad with lunch.

I peek up just as a man comes through the door.

Not Dad, and sadly he’s not carrying a bag of deli sandwiches, so I hoist my body off the ground. “Sorry, I— Oh . . .” I blow a loose strand of hair from my eyes. “You.” The guy from the diner. The one who lost his mom. My chest aches.

He stares, his face unreadable.

“I’m sorry, I just . . .” I take a step toward him and have to tilt my head up to see his eyes. “I saw you yesterday.”

He makes a choking noise and looks away.

“At the 87 Café? You were grabbing coffee.”

His baseball hat is pulled low over his eyes—similar to how he was wearing it at the diner—and his chin is dipped to his chest so I can’t get a good look at his face. He shifts on his feet. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Um . . .” I peer behind me, then back at him. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Ma’am.” He pulls his hat off and runs a hand through a thick mass of dark hair, avoiding my eyes. “I’m here to see Mr. Jennings.”

“Mr. Jennings?” I tilt my head and study him. Faded jeans coated in dirt and sawdust. The scent of mountain air and pinesap wafting off of his solid frame speak of time working manual labor. And I remember his truck. “You work for Jennings?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He pops his hat back on and pulls it low. He has to be in his midtwenties, but his body language is more like a teenage boy. None of the bloated confidence like the men I’m used to. His timidity is kind of charming. His hands fidget in front of his thighs. He catches me watching and quickly shoves them into his pockets.

“Shyann.”

He lifts his chin, showcasing a square jaw and full lips. He really is beautiful. “Ma’am?”

“Call me Shyann.” I hold out a hand and swear the movement makes him jump, even if only minutely. “Shyann Jennings.”

He stills for a second, registers my name, then grabs my hand for a quick, firm shake. His palm is warm, clammy, and calloused, and as soon as he grabs mine, he releases it. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re not from around here.” Growing up in a small town I know everyone there is, including their relatives, but that’s not what gives away his flatlander status. He’s not a natural-born mountain man. His skin is tan, but it’s not from spending his youth working land or maintaining a farm. Kids like me who grow up country spend the majority of our lives outside. This guy’s tan is new, without freckles or the grooves most men get around their mouth and eyes.

Then there are his manners. He’s overly polite, overly respectful. Hell, he took his hat off when he addressed me. Again, not uncommon in small towns, but the way he does it is more militant than genteel.

“No, ma’am.” He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans.

“Where you from?”

He shrugs and his eyes dart to the front door. A patch of puckered skin mars the slope of his neck just below his jaw. “Little bit a’everywhere.”

“Are you a felon?”

His body jerks back and he tenses. “No, ma’am. No, I . . . I’m not . . .”

I slide a stack of invoices and purchase orders into my arms and hope taking my focus off him will relieve his nervousness. “Most people who wind up in a small town are hiding something. I don’t judge.”

He’s stock-still, staring, and as I pass him to the file cabinet, I do it close to try to get a glimpse of his eyes, but he steps back to maintain his distance.