Chapter 7: An Unspoken Truce

The morning Cal loaded his truck with the first set of shelving units, he told himself this was purely professional. Just a carpenter delivering custom work to a client, nothing more complicated than that. The fact that his hands had lingered over every joint, every surface, perfecting details that would never be noticed—that was just pride in craftsmanship.

Nothing to do with the way Lena's face had lit up when he'd emailed her the final designs.

Petal & Stem was a chaos of potential when he arrived. Paint cans lined one wall, their lids splattered with the soft green she'd chosen for the accent wall. Boxes of ribbon and floral supplies created a maze through the center of the room, and the air smelled like fresh paint and the faint sweetness of the sample arrangements she'd been testing.

But underneath the chaos, Cal could see her vision taking shape. The space had good bones—high ceilings, original hardwood floors, windows that would flood her displays with natural light. It would be beautiful when she was done, he had to admit. The kind of place that would draw customers from three counties over.

If she could keep it open long enough.

"You're early," Lena's voice came from behind a stack of boxes, tinged with surprise and something that might have been relief.

"Wanted to get started before the day got away from me." Cal wheeled his dolly through the front door, the first shelving unit secured with moving blankets. "Where do you want this?"

She emerged from the maze, paint streaks in her honey-blonde hair and dirt under her fingernails. She was wearing old jeans and a paint-splattered t-shirt, looking more like the girl he'd once known than the polished woman who'd returned to Willow Creek. The sight hit him harder than he'd expected.

"Against the east wall," she said, gesturing toward the exposed brick. "Are you sure you can manage it alone? It looks heavy."

"I built it. I can move it." Cal maneuvered the dolly into position, then began the careful process of transferring the unit to its permanent home. The shelving was solid oak, built to commercial standards but with the kind of attention to detail that separated furniture from art.

Lena watched him work, and he could feel her eyes tracking his movements as he leveled the unit and secured it to the wall studs. When he stepped back to check his work, she moved closer, running her hand along the smooth surface.

"Cal, this is..." She trailed off, her voice soft with something like awe. "This is incredible."

He'd designed the piece to complement the room's architecture—clean lines that echoed the exposed beams, proportions that would showcase her arrangements without overwhelming them. The wood grain caught the morning light, warm and inviting, and the integrated LED strips would make her flowers glow like jewels after dark.

"It's what you asked for," he said, but even to his own ears the words sounded gruff, inadequate.

"No." Lena shook her head, still running her fingers along the wood. "This is so much more than what I asked for. This is..." She looked up at him, her brown eyes bright with unshed tears. "This is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever made for me."

The words hung between them, loaded with history and longing. Cal felt his carefully maintained walls waver, felt the pull of old attraction mixed with something deeper, more dangerous. This was why he'd wanted the privacy fence, why he'd tried to keep his distance. Lena had always been able to slip past his defenses when he wasn't looking.

"I should get the rest of the units," he said, turning toward the door before she could see how her praise affected him.

"Cal, wait." Her voice stopped him at the threshold. "I made coffee. Real coffee, not the gas station stuff. Would you... could you take a break? Please?"

He should say no. Should maintain the professional distance that kept them both safe. But something in her voice—not quite pleading, but close—made him pause.

"Five minutes," he said.

She smiled, the expression transforming her paint-streaked face into something radiant. "Five minutes."

The coffee was perfect—strong and dark, with just a hint of the cinnamon she'd always favored. She'd set up a makeshift break area in the back of the shop, two folding chairs facing the window that looked out onto Main Street. It felt oddly domestic, sharing coffee in the midst of her organized chaos.

"The unit really is beautiful," she said again, settling into her chair with the careful grace he remembered. "I know I'm paying you, but it feels like more than a business transaction. Like you put part of yourself into it."

Cal stared into his coffee, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "I do good work. That's why people hire me."

"Is it?" Lena's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Or is it because you care about the people you're building for?"

Before he could answer, the bell above the front door chimed. They both looked up to see the mail carrier approaching with a handful of envelopes. Most looked like the usual business correspondence—supplier catalogs, permit updates—but one stood out. Official letterhead, the kind that never brought good news.

"Thanks, Jerry," Lena called out, but Cal saw her face tighten as she spotted the letter from what looked like a collection agency.

She moved quickly to intercept the mail, shuffling the letters so the official one was on the bottom of the stack. But her hands shook slightly as she set them aside, and the casual smile she offered him was too bright, too forced.

"Nothing important," she said, but they both knew it was a lie.

Cal pretended not to notice the way her shoulders tensed, the way she kept glancing toward the stack of mail like it might explode. But the evidence of her financial struggle was becoming impossible to ignore. The collection letter, the overheard phone calls about insurance denials, the way she'd gone pale when he'd quoted her for the fence repair—it all painted a picture of someone barely keeping her head above water.

"The next unit should be ready by tomorrow," he said, finishing his coffee and standing. Professional distance. Safe ground.

"Thank you." She walked him to the door, her movements careful and controlled. "Cal? I know this is complicated, working together after... everything. But I'm grateful. More grateful than you know."

He nodded, not trusting his voice, and loaded his empty dolly back into the truck. As he drove away, he caught sight of her in his rearview mirror, standing in the doorway of her shop. She looked small against the large windows, fragile in a way that made his chest tight.

That evening, Cal found himself thinking about the collection letter, about the fear in her voice during those overheard phone calls. He knew what medical debt looked like—his own father had battled cancer five years ago, and even with good insurance, the bills had been staggering. For someone without coverage, someone trying to start a business while caring for a sick parent...

He was still thinking about it when he started work on the second shelving unit, his hands moving automatically through the familiar motions of measuring and cutting. The work was meditative, peaceful, but his mind kept drifting to the woman next door and the burdens she was carrying alone.

I left because I thought I was ruining your future.

Her words echoed in his head as he worked, recontextualizing everything he thought he knew about their past. If her mother had been sick even back then, if money had been an issue, if she'd seen his dreams of college and career and decided she was holding him back...

The thought was too dangerous to pursue, too threatening to the narrative that had shaped his last decade. But it wouldn't leave him alone, persistent as the scent of her flowers drifting through his open workshop door.

By the time he finished the second unit, Cal had made a decision. Tomorrow, when he delivered it, he would maintain professional distance. He would do his job, collect his payment, and resist the pull of old feelings and new understanding.

It was the smart choice, the safe choice.

It was also, he suspected, going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done.

Because somewhere between the overheard phone calls and the collection letter, between her gratitude and her paint-streaked smile, his anger had begun to crack. And underneath it, like something buried too long in darkness, other feelings were starting to grow.

Dangerous feelings. The kind that could destroy the careful peace he'd built in her absence.

The kind that might be worth the risk.