He carried the plates, napkins, and the empty glass with him to the living area and sat on the opposite end of the couch from her, a few inches from her feet. As he unpacked the Styrofoam containers and distributed them, poured himself a glass of wine, and settled into the cushions to do some damage on his dinner, Sierra quizzed him on the Clayborne’s crowd and the preparations for the band. He learned she saw a lot of live bands at the bar down the block but that she wasn’t a big fan of the one playing tonight. He confessed it had been a couple of years since he’d been to any kind of concert.

And that, apparently, was the end of the small talk.

“So,” she said after eating her first few pretzel bites dipped in cheese sauce. “Your changes to the Eldridge application, the essays, they’re excellent. Huge improvement. Thank you,” she gushed.

“Welcome,” he said quietly, uncomfortably, turning his attention to his double burger.

“You’re a really good writer. Super talented. The way you took what I had and restructured it to make more sense… It’s amazing how well it flows now. I had the pertinent stuff kind of spewed out so that it all got on the page, but you made each one read almost like a story. That takes skills. And I see what you mean now about marketing. You were subtle but effective.”

His mouth was full, so he didn’t respond except for a single nod.

“You can shove that burger in your mouth all you want, but I still want to know some things,” she said.

When he’d swallowed the bite, he said, lightly, “Are we on the clock or off right now?”

“Gray area.” She took a sip of her wine, emptying the glass, then poured some more. “You’ve got uncanny math skills, you could do project managing effectively in your sleep, and you write like a freaking New York Times best seller. Why are you working construction, Cole?”

“Why are you?” he threw back at her even though he knew her reasons.

“It’s what I love,” she said simply, holding her wineglass up in front of her, seeming to have forgotten her food for now. “It’s in my blood. It’s my grandpa’s legacy. It’s what I burn to do. You know that. I’m not quiet about it.”

No, she wasn’t quiet about it, and her passion for restoring old buildings was part of her charm.

She unwrapped her ham and cheese melt, took a bite, and peered at him, waiting for his answer.

He ate a couple of fries, buying himself some time. Then he said, “Long story. Not very interesting.”

“Nice try. Will you tell me?” she said more quietly, less bossily. “Please?”