a moment. “Shouldn’t take more than
five minutes to fix. I’ve got my tools back at home.”
“Really?”
My hope rises. “You’d be doing me a big favor. This thing
has been nothing but trouble. It almost makes me wish I’d kept
Berta.”
“Berta?”
Will closes the hood, smiling.
“My
old beater,” I explain. “She wasn’t glamorous, but
she never let me down.”
“Give
this guy a chance,” Will says. “You just need to get to
know him, that’s all.”
I
wonder for a moment if he’s still talking about the car, but
then Lottie comes out. I grab my stuff and say my goodbyes, then get
behind the wheel, following Will’s ancient truck as he heads
out of town.
Way
out of town.
I
peer at the winding road ahead. I know pretty much every square mile
of Oak Harbor, but even this is getting rural, way out in the woods.
Private. Alone.
I
feel a shiver, but immediately scold myself. What am I so worried
about? Will isn’t the kind of guy to jump me. No,
but you might just wind up pinning him down for another kiss . . .
I
flush. A short, wild fling is one thing, but Will lives here now,
which means he has “boyfriend material” written all over
him. Roughly translated to, a very bad idea. I can keep my hands to
myself if it means keeping things simple. Friendly.
Totally
platonic.
I
follow Will off the main road and down a twisting, bumpy dirt track.
I’m already regretting the mud on my tires by the time we pull
up in front of . . . well, let’s just say
“shack” is being generous. I scramble out of the car and
look at the run-down buildings in horror. “Tell me which
realtor sold you this pile of crap, and I’ll go kick his ass,”
I vow fiercely.
Will
bursts out laughing. “Relax, I’ve got it under control,”
he says. “They’re fixing the roof, and there’ll be
running water by next week.”
“There’s
no running water!” I yelp, before catching myself. I take a
deep breath. This is his business, and it’s not like I’m
going to be hanging out here. “Sounds . . .
great,” I say instead, following him around to the workshop in
back. Unlike the rest of the property, this space is spotless: swept
out and scrubbed down, with two work benches already set up and tools
hanging neatly on the wall. Will heads for the boxes stacked in the
back while I wander, taking it in. “What are these?” I
ask, trailing my fingertips over some weird metal tools.
Will
looks up from a box. “That’s a sander and the big one is
a jig,” he explains. “They were my grandfather’s.
He worked as a craftsman, building furniture and restoring old
houses.”
“That’s
great,” I say, then notice a couple of chairs in the corner:
their wood smoothed to an antique sheen, with cracked leather seats,
so soft-looking I have to stop myself from taking a seat. “Are
these his?”
Will
straightens up. “No, I made those.”
“Really?” I move in
to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful. I could swear
they were a hundred years old.”
“That’s
the point.” He looks almost bashful, his hands shoved in his
pockets. “I love working with old, reclaimed wood, vintage
materials. It’s like everything’s already lived a dozen
lives over, this is just the latest chapter in their story.”
I
look at him anew. I never would have guessed. “Is this what you
did back in New York?”
He
gives a short laugh. “No. I had a studio space, where it all
just sat, gathering dust. But I thought, maybe, down here, I could
spend more time on it . . .” Will pauses, a shy
expression on his face. “There are some great design stores in
the city. I thought maybe when I have more of a portfolio, I could
see about them carrying a few pieces.”
“That’s
great,” I say, impressed.
He
shrugs, still low-key. “We’ll see. Keeps me busy, at
least.”
“No,
I mean it,” I insist. “You have a real talent, Will. You
should be proud of it.”
Will
glances up, and our eyes catch.
five minutes to fix. I’ve got my tools back at home.”
“Really?”
My hope rises. “You’d be doing me a big favor. This thing
has been nothing but trouble. It almost makes me wish I’d kept
Berta.”
“Berta?”
Will closes the hood, smiling.
“My
old beater,” I explain. “She wasn’t glamorous, but
she never let me down.”
“Give
this guy a chance,” Will says. “You just need to get to
know him, that’s all.”
I
wonder for a moment if he’s still talking about the car, but
then Lottie comes out. I grab my stuff and say my goodbyes, then get
behind the wheel, following Will’s ancient truck as he heads
out of town.
Way
out of town.
I
peer at the winding road ahead. I know pretty much every square mile
of Oak Harbor, but even this is getting rural, way out in the woods.
Private. Alone.
I
feel a shiver, but immediately scold myself. What am I so worried
about? Will isn’t the kind of guy to jump me. No,
but you might just wind up pinning him down for another kiss . . .
I
flush. A short, wild fling is one thing, but Will lives here now,
which means he has “boyfriend material” written all over
him. Roughly translated to, a very bad idea. I can keep my hands to
myself if it means keeping things simple. Friendly.
Totally
platonic.
I
follow Will off the main road and down a twisting, bumpy dirt track.
I’m already regretting the mud on my tires by the time we pull
up in front of . . . well, let’s just say
“shack” is being generous. I scramble out of the car and
look at the run-down buildings in horror. “Tell me which
realtor sold you this pile of crap, and I’ll go kick his ass,”
I vow fiercely.
Will
bursts out laughing. “Relax, I’ve got it under control,”
he says. “They’re fixing the roof, and there’ll be
running water by next week.”
“There’s
no running water!” I yelp, before catching myself. I take a
deep breath. This is his business, and it’s not like I’m
going to be hanging out here. “Sounds . . .
great,” I say instead, following him around to the workshop in
back. Unlike the rest of the property, this space is spotless: swept
out and scrubbed down, with two work benches already set up and tools
hanging neatly on the wall. Will heads for the boxes stacked in the
back while I wander, taking it in. “What are these?” I
ask, trailing my fingertips over some weird metal tools.
Will
looks up from a box. “That’s a sander and the big one is
a jig,” he explains. “They were my grandfather’s.
He worked as a craftsman, building furniture and restoring old
houses.”
“That’s
great,” I say, then notice a couple of chairs in the corner:
their wood smoothed to an antique sheen, with cracked leather seats,
so soft-looking I have to stop myself from taking a seat. “Are
these his?”
Will
straightens up. “No, I made those.”
“Really?” I move in
to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful. I could swear
they were a hundred years old.”
“That’s
the point.” He looks almost bashful, his hands shoved in his
pockets. “I love working with old, reclaimed wood, vintage
materials. It’s like everything’s already lived a dozen
lives over, this is just the latest chapter in their story.”
I
look at him anew. I never would have guessed. “Is this what you
did back in New York?”
He
gives a short laugh. “No. I had a studio space, where it all
just sat, gathering dust. But I thought, maybe, down here, I could
spend more time on it . . .” Will pauses, a shy
expression on his face. “There are some great design stores in
the city. I thought maybe when I have more of a portfolio, I could
see about them carrying a few pieces.”
“That’s
great,” I say, impressed.
He
shrugs, still low-key. “We’ll see. Keeps me busy, at
least.”
“No,
I mean it,” I insist. “You have a real talent, Will. You
should be proud of it.”
Will
glances up, and our eyes catch.
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