He pulled the tarp away.
Jake’s breath caught.
The figure stood over three feet tall, carved from cherry wood that glowed warm even in the workshop’s fluorescent light. It was the rough figure of a man—sharp angles, broad shoulders, abstract almost—standing with one hand raised to his brow, as if saluting, or searching maybe.
Obviously, the details weren’t there yet, but the shape was expressive enough to convey emotion. Yearning? Anticipation? “Wes,” Jake breathed. “This is... God, this is beautiful.”
Wes shifted his weight, uncomfortable. “Still needs work. But I like the shape it’s taking.”
“It’s…powerful.” Jake moved closer, drawn to it. “What inspired it?”
Wes was quiet for a long moment, his face furrowed with words he couldn’t quite spit out. “Just... a feeling I was trying to work through.”
“What feeling?”
“Hope, maybe? Or possibility.” Wes reached out, his fingers hovering near the figure but not quite touching, like he was afraid he might damage it. “The idea that maybe there’s something better out there. Something worth looking for, even if you’re scared you won’t find it.”
Jake felt a lump in his throat. There was something raw in Wes’s voice, something vulnerable that made Jake want to close the distance between them and?—
“It’s stupid,” Wes said suddenly, dropping his hand. “Sentimental bullshit.”
“It’s not stupid.” Jake turned to face him. “It’s honest. That’s what makes it strong.”
Their eyes met, and Jake saw something flicker across Wes’s face—gratitude, maybe, or understanding. Like he had seen the same thing in the carving that Wes had.
“You really think I could sell these?” Wes asked quietly. “Not just at church craft fairs, but really sell them?”
“I think you could do more than sell them. I think you could make a name for yourself.” Jake gestured at the figure. “This isn’t hobby-level work, Wes. This is art.”
Wes looked back at the carving, his expression unreadable. “Pedro said something similar. About not hiding my light.”
“He’s right.”
“Yeah, well. Easier said than done when you’re drowning in debt, and your father needs medication three times a day.”
“I know.” Jake wanted to touch him, to offer comfort beyond words, but he kept his hands at his sides. “But this—what you create—it matters. Don’t let the farm make you forget that.”
Wes carefully draped the tarp back over the figure, his movements gentle, reverent. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it.”
They stood there in the sawdust-scented quiet, and Jake felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them—attraction and fear and the impossibility of timing.
“I should get back,” Wes said finally. “Miguel’s probably drowning in customers.”
“Right. Of course.”
But neither of them moved toward the door.
Jake was standing close now. Close enough that Wes again saw the hazel flecks in his blue eyes, smelled his cologne—something clean that made Wes want to lean in and breathe deeper.
“I think about you,” Jake said quietly. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”
Wes’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Jake?—”
“I know. I know I shouldn’t. You’re a client. I’m supposed to be professional. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I think about you too.”
