I scan the other framed photos, but they’re only of Marley and Rian together—no parents, no grandmother, no hints of family apart from each other, which makes me wonder how literally she meant it when she said they take care of each other.

I set the photo back down beside an oddly shaped bowl. It looks like a six-year-old’s pottery project and very much the same as the one she made weeks ago when I went to a class with her. I pick it up and turn it over. Rian’s name is etched into the bottom in her gentle handwriting, not child scrawl.

I put it back and continue to snoop, discovering an entire shelf of misshapen vases. I check the bottom of each one—all named and dated and belonging to Rian. That she continues to do something she doesn’t seem to get better at, even after all this time is another endearing quality.

“What’re you doing?” Rian’s high, slightly embarrassed voice startles me, and I nearly fumble the vase. Recovering, I set it back on the shelf.

“You made all of these?” I gesture to her sad-looking shelf of pottery.

“It’s relaxing.”

“How many of these do you have?”

“I don’t know. A bunch.” She moves the vase so it’s lined up with the others in all their warped glory.

“Does Marley ever go with you?”

She laughs. “No. It’s not a Marley thing.”

“Is it, like, something you do with your mom?” I’m fishing now.

Her eyes flare briefly and fill with sadness before resolve settles in. “Uh no, my mom isn’t…” The doorbell rings, startling us both. She blows out a breath and laughs nervously. “That’s Marley. I’ll be right back.”

I watch her rush down the stairs, yelling for Marley to relax when she hits the doorbell again three seconds later. I’m annoyed by the interruption. It felt like we were on the brink of a moment, and now it’s gone.

She returns a minute later with Marley in tow. The sadness in her eyes is gone, and back is the slightly guarded version of the Rian I’ve come to know over these past weeks. “We should go before the store gets too busy, right?”

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

She grabs her purse and we head for the stairs, but I make a mental note to find a way back to this discussion.

CHAPTER 23

HARDWARE AND OTHER NECESSARY ITEMS

RIAN

My stomach churns with anxiety and guilt as I follow Pierce around the hardware store, pushing the cart. I’d been on the verge of either telling him the truth or a half lie, and I don’t know which would be worse. He’s been so open and honest, and here I am, shrouding myself in secrets to avoid letting him in. Thankfully, Marley’s poor memory saved the day.

I try to put it out of my head and focus on my pricing mission. I would’ve done this online, but I can’t see quality in an image. Fresh paint, a kitchen upgrade, new floors, and updated bathrooms is all the house needs, plus an exterior cosmetic facelift and some minimal landscaping. We have fifty thousand dollars to work with. My goal is to get it done with ten grand to spare.

We’re currently in the paint section. Pierce picks up a five-gallon bucket of primer like it weighs a much as a Styrofoam cup. The muscles in his forearms flex, making the golf ball under his skin pop. I watch, enthralled by the flex and pull of muscle as he hoists it into the cart.

He ducks down so his face is level with mine. “’Sup?”

“Huh?” I blink and realize I’m probably sporting a very blank look. I squeeze his arm. “Just enjoying the gun show.”

He smiles, but it’s not as cocky as usual. “I can do push-ups on top of you later if you want.”

“While you’re naked?”

“Is there any other way?”

I push on his chest, not because I can’t handle the flirting or the promise of what’s to come later, but because I’m full of conflict. I want to confide in him, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do. I’m also afraid of what it means that I want to tell him the truth, and that I almost did. I’m getting attached, which is fruitless for so many reasons.

I scan the brands of paint, anything to get out of my own head, and note an alternative to the one in the cart. “That’s twenty dollars cheaper.”

He glances at it, but reaches for another five-gallon bucket of the more expensive brand. I want to point out how he’s wasting money, but I bite my tongue. He drives a Tesla and his second vehicle is a truck. A big truck with a push-button start and chrome everything. He’s not worried about money. He’s seen where I live now and is aware that we’re definitely not even close to the same pay grade—I’m sure he’s known that since he saw my Buick, but it still makes it more real. All of this feels more real than I want it to.

He drops the second bucket in the cart. “Cheaper but not the same quality. I’d need to use twice as much of the less expensive brand to cover the same square footage, so it would end up costing more in the long run.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize that.” Now I feel like a jerk for thinking he was wasteful. At least I didn’t say it aloud.

He points to another brand, even more expensive than the one he’s chosen. The kind my father likely would’ve chosen based on cost alone. “This stuff isn’t worth the price tag. Not when this”—he taps the buckets in the cart—“does just as good a job.”

“Good to know.” I check average square footage of coverage on the paint bucket, then mentally do the math for one of the bedrooms in our beach house, all four walls and the ceiling, and break it down by cost per square foot. “So this is about ten cents a square foot, but that would cost more like twenty?” I ask.

He narrows his eyes. “Did you do that math in your head?”

“Yes.”

He crowds me. “You need to stop that.”

I have to tip my head up so I can meet his serious gaze. “I need to stop doing mental math?”

“In public places, yes.”

I bite my cheek to keep my smile in check. “Do I want to ask why?”

“Because I find it sexy, and it makes me want to do inappropriate things to you in this aisle. The kind of things that would get me arrested.”

I grin. “You probably shouldn’t have told me that. I’m definitely going to use that against you in the future.”

He returns the smile, except his is dark. “I fully anticipate that you will, and that I’ll probably enjoy it.” He steps back, slips his hand in his pocket, and makes a covert adjustment. We continue down the aisle, where Pierce grabs paint rollers and a few brushes, cleaner, and cloths. I ask questions about best brands and most economical purchases.

“You know, if you want or need any help with your flip, all you have to do is ask. You can borrow whatever you need from me instead of buying new stuff, and I have trade guys I can call.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you to offer. But don’t you need your trade guys, and won’t that piss off your brother?”

“I don’t know why you’re so worried about pissing off my brother. I’m not. And I don’t need them all the time, so I’m happy to share contacts with you.”

One thing I know about this business is that sharing contacts doesn’t happen often. “Thanks, that’d be great.”

We spend the next two hours shopping—well, Pierce is done picking up what he needs in less than twenty minutes. We spend the rest of the time discussing finishes and pricing out everything from kitchen cabinets to bathroom hardware.