She waved away the suggestion with her good hand. “Just put a bandage on it. It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it tonight.”

“My stepdad would rightfully slap me across the face if I allowed my potential client and the object of my affection to get gangrene and die,” he insisted.

“Well, if it will save you getting slapped in the face,” Maggie said, amused.

“Kitchen?”

She pointed, and he dragged her in the designated direction.

The room was big but cramped, he noted, as he put the bag down. Some joker with no taste had painted the mismatched cabinets a bumblebee yellow. Half the doors were missing, revealing a collection of original orange Tupperware containers piled on top of peeling shelf paper. The countertops were a faded red linoleum with a stainless steel edge. The floor was…well, sticky. That was the best adjective for it.

“This is exactly why no one should have been allowed to renovate in the seventies,” he noted, pulling her to the porcelain farmhouse sink, the only thing in the room worth saving in his opinion. He cranked the hot water handle and reached for the new bottle of hand soap on the counter.

“Sixty-nine,” she corrected. “At least according to the receipts I found stashed in the mousetrap drawer.”

“The treasures you find. Kind of like that file cabinet full of carpet samples in the Seattle Craftsman,” he said.

“You’ve been doing some research,” she said.

“I have. Paid the neighbor kid five dollars to show me what the YouTube was,” Silas joked, deciding it might not be the best time to tell her his brother had a Building Dreams T-shirt with her face on it. “I’ll give you a lollipop if you’re a good girl and don’t cry,” he said a split second before shoving her hand under the water.

To her credit, she only yelped. “I can’t tell if you’re kidding about ‘the YouTube,’” she said through her teeth as he carefully cleaned the gash.

“I’m a funny guy. But I also know jack shit about social media. So I hope that’s not a deal breaker personally or professionally. When was your last tetanus?” he asked.

“Last year. Carpet tack in my foot,” she said. “How do you advertise your business?”

“Good ol’ word of mouth and the occasional mailer. How’d you do this?” he asked, holding up her now clean hand and applying pressure with a paper towel. She had a dozen small scars on both hands, like he did. Like anyone who worked with their hands for a living did.

“Broken glass-front cabinet in what I’m calling the second dining room for now because I have no idea what it was used for. So to what do I owe the pleasure? Are you here to attempt more Grand Theft Auto or do you just drive around town on Saturdays offering first aid?”