Page 17 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I blink. “You are alone?”
He grins. “Mom’s busy with poetry stuff.”
I arch a brow. Poetry. Of course.
“I brought these!” He lifts the tote with a grunt, then dumps its contents across my drafting table.
Seashells. Dozens of them—spiraled, cracked, bleached smooth by the tide.
“For creative inspiration,” he announces proudly.
I stare at the pile, then at him. “You collect artifacts for architects now?”
He shrugs. “They make the buildings happy.”
A huff of amusement escapes me.
“You are persistent,” I say.
Jamie beams. “Can I stay?”
I hesitate. Logic says no. The boy should not be here—should not be near me. Not if I wish to maintain distance. Control.
But when I look down into those wide sea-glass eyes, the word won’t come.
“Very well,” I say. “For a short time.”
“Yay!” He scrambles up onto the spare chair. “What’re you building today?”
I glance at the untouched plans. “Nothing yet.”
“Why not?”
Because my focus is fractured. Because your mother lingers in my thoughts like a thorn beneath the skin.
“Because even builders require… inspiration.”
Jamie nods sagely. “That’s why you need seashells.”
“Perhaps.”
He hums under his breath, then peers out the window.
“Can we go outside? Mom says the benches are sad.”
I frown. “Sad?”
“They’re broken. No one fixes them.”
I consider this. A distraction might serve us both.
“Very well,” I say. “But you will follow my instructions.”
He grins. “Deal!”
Minutes later, we stand before one of the boardwalk’s oldest benches—its slats cracked, iron legs rusted. Seagulls wheel overhead. The air smells of salt and old wood.
I fetch tools from the trailer—hammer, nails, sandpaper. Jamie trails me like a shadow.
