She opened her door, and I walked into her small, comfortable lobby, where another patient was already waiting.

Maybe she’d help him through whatever he was going through, because there wasn’t a through it for me.

…

“Give it to me straight,” I said to the fourth contractor Joey had brought out to look at my property in the last two days. At least this guy was closer to our age and didn’t look at me like I’d lost my mind or suggest a complete teardown.

He scratched his well-trimmed beard and looked back at the house from where we stood on the driveway. “Well, how much money do you have?”

“Come on, Steve,” Joey snapped, folding her arms across her chest. Grayson’s older sister had cut her dark tresses to a bob in the years since I’d seen her, but there was no mistaking her for cute when she arched that eyebrow.

“Don’t be like that, Joey. You asked me for my opinion, and I’m giving it. That house is a wreck. You need a new deck on both levels—hell, I’m surprised they’re still standing, honestly—new siding, new staircases.”

I left out the tidbit where I’d already fallen through the landing.

“Okay, but structurally?” I prodded, hoping the inspector had told the truth on the report I’d seen before closing.

“In that, you lucked out. The foundations around the boathouse and pillars are sound, but they both need better drainage and waterproofing. The bones are good, shape is great for deflecting wind, but it could use a dose of storm-proofing—or you’re probably going down in the next cat three. I’m surprised she made it through this last one, and she took some damage for it. Definitely needs a new roof, and that weathervane looks like it’s about to break off any minute.” He pointed up to the heavy brass arrow that spun circles on my roof when the wind changed.

“It stays,” I said. “Reinstall it or whatever, but I like it.” Arrows were supposed to be meaningful, right? Getting pulled back to release farther and faster, or something. Besides, if it had survived the storms for this long, who was I to yank it down?

He sighed. “Ms. Bartley, the weathervane is the least of your problems. Your electrical system needs to be completely overhauled. I don’t know who thought it was a great idea to put a secondary panel in a room that’s literally built to flood.”

And it just keeps getting better. By grace, the house was just as much of a mess as I was.

A long shadow came up parallel with mine, and I knew from the general shape that Jackson was its owner. I wanted to feel annoyance, or a little of that temper that had flared when he’d insinuated that I couldn’t fix my own damn house, but neither came. Just a quick kick to my pulse and a weird sense of relief.

Only because he’s already pulled you out of the shit once.