Deciding the best path forward was to ignore the unspoken awareness of each other, I asked more gruffly than I intended, “What?”
Tierney swallowed and looked away. “Uh, can I see your workshop?”
“Want to know if I’m any good?” Now, why did that sound dirtier than intended?
“Something like that.”
A minute later we were walking across the clearing to my barn.
“Do you have solar panels somewhere?” my companion asked.
“Aye. Beyond the trees where they get constant light.”
“Do you have plumbing?”
Her curiosity was endearing and also annoying because I wondered what else she’d become curious about. “Aye. It was a bitch to put in and more expense than any normal person would spend to connect to Glenvulin’s sewage line.”
“Oh, I’d spend it in a heartbeat.” She gave me a smile filled with camaraderie. It really was the sweetest smile I’d ever seen. “I once stayed with some friends on an island in the Philippines. Beautiful. Stunning. But no plumbing. The owners of the rental were using composting toilets. Sounds fine, right? It’s not fine. They weren’t maintained properly and three of us got food poisoning. The smelly kind. These composting toilets were not equipped to deal with that shit. Literally.”
I grunted with amusement as I let her into my workshop. The earthy aroma of wood hit my nostrils in a comforting, familiar way as we entered.
“And I’m talking to you about fecal matter,” she murmured, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly. “I’m doing great. Got stuck on your island. Inconveniencing you. And now I’m talking about disgusting bodily functions.”
“Everyone shits.” I shrugged, brushing past her to switch on the lights. “Even the king.”
Tierney laughed, and the sound, for some reason, made me think of these wee silver bells my mum used to hang from an arched doorway that divided the living room from the entrance. She hung them there every Christmas. The sound of her laughter was fitting, considering Tierney’s surname. “I think that’s blasphemy.”
“Only if he heard me.” I turned to watch the bulbs taking a second to warm up and illuminate the space.
“Maybe he did. He is the king.” Her gaze darted around the workshop and landed on my current piece. A client on the Isle of Skye had commissioned me to make a rocking chair based on a photo of her grandmother’s old chair.
“This is gorgeous.” Tierney strode over to it, her hand hovering above the carvings along the side panels. “You’re not merely a carpenter. You’re an artist.”
Uncomfortable with her effusive compliment, I stared down at the chair I’d spent the past few weeks working on between other projects. “I’m just copying the photo my client gave me.”
“Well, it’s amazing. Also this placesmellsamazing.”
It did. At least it did to me. I worked with a lot of hardwoods, which had a smoky scent. There was something calming about it. I always felt myself unwind while I crafted items out of wood.
The large barn might have been filled with half-finished work—a dining table Erin Mull from the island had commissioned; bookshelves that would slot perfectly into place in a home on Skye; a live-edge wood coffee table for Cammie’s client on the mainland. But my tools were meticulously organized—squares, table saw, saws, chisels, fastening tools, clamps, sanders, brushes. Other than Akiva, this workshop was my baby.
“What got you into carpentry?”
Living on a very small island had prepared me for people’s natural curiosity about their neighbors. Once the questions had made me uncomfortable, like I’d squeezed on too small boots. Now, I skirted the details of my history with ease. “Military put me through my engineering and construction degrees. Picked up some skills along the way. Woodwork became a bit of a hobby.”
“A hobby.” She strolled casually around my space, eyeing my equipment and the pieces of furniture lying around in different levels of repair and finish. She stopped at the coffee table with its live edge and tentatively ran her hands along it. “Beautiful. Pretty awesome hobby. I can barely put together something from Ikea.” Her tone went beyond self-deprecating to disparaging. She flicked me a look. “But I can shoot a target from two hundred yards. Maybe I should have gone into the military. Did something useful.”
Not many people surprised me. But this did. “How did you learn to shoot?”
“My dad.” Tierney turned, crossing her arms over her chest in a move I knew she didn’t realize was protective, defensive. “He used to take me to the outdoor rifle range at his club every second Saturday.”
“Do you like guns, then?”
“Nope. But I liked spending time with my dad. And I happened to be good at it. Do you like guns?”
I tried not to smile at the attitude in her question, like my enquiry had been judgmental. It was not. “They have their uses.”
Our eyes held for a second too long, that awareness raking over my skin. Her arms dropped from her chest as her attention dropped to my mouth. I wasn’t sure she even realized how much she gave away.
