My deposit has been accepted. The coordinator for the trip called me, asked me a few questions, and just like that, I’m going on a six-month trip around America and Canada.
Excitement fills my body, but also fear, which is new for me. Perhaps I rushed into this. I’ve always been a pretty impulsive person—I get it from my mother—and sometimes act without thinking, but there’s no turning back now. I’m going.
Think positive.
Think positive.
Think—ow.
My thumb throbs. I’m trying to assemble a wooden shelf, but I’ve already slipped up a few times with the hammer. I’m not a huge reader, but I bought a few romance books at the store earlier to give me something to do other than scroll mindlessly through social media when I’m not feeling particularly creative. Poppy recommendedme a few books that she loves, and knowing her, they’re going to be pretty raunchy.
“You stupid fuck,” I growl at the hammer again, tossing it to the side this time, but grabbing it after realising that this shelf isn’t going to magically build itself.
Then, there’s a knock at my door.
Evan is standing there when I open it, his eyes widening as he takes in the hammer I’m holding. He takes a step back, and his mouth flattens. “Whoa… what are you doing in here?”
My free hand flicks in the direction of the floor covered in wood, nails, and screws. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Making a mess of my floor.” He walks in, and I release a humoured scoff, muttering, “Oh, yes, why don’t you come on in, Evan?” with as much sarcasm as I can despite my upturned lips. He crouches down, humming, and holds out his hand for the hammer, which I reluctantly give him.
“Are you trying to make a… bedside table?” Evan’s eyes slide to the one already by my bed, where a mountain of my skincare sits, now that I’ve officially moved everything in.
“A shelf.”
“I didn’t—Gracie didn’t give you one? Sorry.” The small pile of brand new books on my bed catch his attention, and he picks one up and studies the cover. A shirtless man with glowing golden eyes stares back at him, his longhair blowing in the imaginary wind as hissing snakes rear up for attack.
Okay, so this one wasn’t recommended to me by Poppy, but the… blurb looked interesting.
“Is this your type?”
“What? Fictional?” I smile. “Yes, absolutely.”
“I meant the hair.” Evan’s greys flicker.
Shrugging, I say, “To be honest, I hadn’t really noticed the hair. Just the lack of shirt.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a demon.”
“A hot demon,” I grumble as I pull the book from his grasp. “Stop judging my choice of books. I’m busy, here.”
Evan hums low in his throat, before he picks up the instruction manual I had been reading religiously as if it were a bible, throwing it to the side like it's useless. “A shelf,” he repeats, shaking his head and chuckling when he picks up my creation. And bycreation, I mean a wonky piece of wood with screws and nails sticking out, and a metal hook embedded into the wrong part.
“You might need those.” I point to the instructions he’s just thrown away, and Evan looks me in the eye before mumbling a quick, “Nope.”
His brows furrow in focus as he gets to work.
There’s something ridiculously attractive about watching a man work on something he’s so sure about. It’s the way his forearms flex as his hand tightens around the electric screwdriver. The way he squints down the edge of thewood to make sure it's level. The way his large, calloused hands swallow the screws and nails.
With his shirt shifting and stretching with every reach of the hammer or screwdriver, I catch sight of the tattoo on the inside of his arm again, and because I’m wearing my glasses, I see the thin outline of a lion’s head. But it’s small. Not very detailed. And drawn in a childlike fashion.
“You have a lion tattoo.” I say it more like a statement than a question.
Evan chuckles. “I’m aware.”
Flicking my eyes in a roll, I join him on the floor, grab the instructions in caseIneed them, and begin helping with the shelf. Holding the wood still while Evan hammers. Gathering the brackets scattered all over the floor. Picking up the small pieces of splintered wood, so neither one of us jab our thumbs with them.
“Why a lion?”
