Joe didn’t get a lotof visitors to the woodshop. His new apprentice, Miguel. The occasional client. His sister, who could be a pain in his ass.
And now Anne.
She glowed in the middle of the work aisle, bright under the shop lights, all red hair and pink cheeks and orange-laced Doc Martens. He could feel her heat from over by the door and tucked his hands into his armpits to keep them out of trouble.
She was turning in circles like a little kid, her wide, interested gaze taking in everything. He tried to see his space through her eyes: the rows of clamps, ordered by size, the flat, empty surfaces, the simple drawer fronts he’d built himself.
“You’re very…neat,” she said.
Warmth crept up the back of his neck, pleasure or embarrassment. Rob used to kid him about their different work styles. “Sawdust is good for the soul, son. You’re not doing the job if you’re not making a mess.”
Joe shrugged. “Clean as you go, my mom always says. Guess I spent enough time in the kitchen that it stuck.”
Those big eyes turned on him. He tried not to like it so much, being the focus of her attention. “You cook?”
“If you want to call soup and grilled cheese cooking. I can feed myself and Hailey.”
Humor lit her face. “Your mom’s a caterer. Are you telling me she doesn’t feed you?”
“Sure, she does, when she’s home. And the leftovers are great. But sometimes she wants a night off.”
Anne nodded. “The cobbler’s children have no shoes.” He must have looked blank, because she added, “It’s a saying. Like Mom complaining how Dad never did stuff around his own house.”
“Sure.” He didn’t tell her that since Rob’s death, Joe had taken over Maddie’s to-do list, catching up on all those repairs his partner had never made time for.
“So, did your mother teach you to cut the crusts off all your little sandwiches?”
He smothered a grin. “No. But Hailey makes me cut them on the diagonal.”
“Because they taste so much better that way.”
“That’s what she says.”
“I can’t cook at all,” Anne said.
She sounded…not sad. Resigned, he thought, and remembered her comment about burning the chicken. “You never had to learn,” he said. As if she needed an excuse or encouragement or something.
“Because I don’t have a sister to feed?”
“Because you had your dad to take care of you.”
She looked away. “Dad…” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “He wasn’t much of a cook.”
He wasn’t much of a businessman, either, but she didn’t need to hear that. Not now. Not from him. “Sorry,” Joe said gruffly.
“For what?”
“Bringing up Rob.”
Her expression flickered, changeable as lake water, sun and clouds chasing over the surface. “I started it, with that stuff about the cobbler’s kids. Besides, it’s not like I don’t think about him all the time anyway. It’s nice to remember him with someone who cares. Mom doesn’t really talk about him.”
That seemed right. Maddie was a doer, not a talker. Like Joe.
Which is why it was a surprise when he heard himself say, “You can talk to me anytime.” Like reminiscing with somebody she’d pretty much dismissed as an asshole would help her get over her grief.
She met his gaze, her eyes wide and shiny. Probably as surprised as he was. For once, she didn’t say whatever was on her mind. But that look punched him in the chest.
Joe cleared his throat, searching for something to fill the suddenly dangerous silence. “Rob was…He was a great guy.” Which everybody knew and anybody could tell her. He tried again. “He taught me a lot.” Like a father, almost. Not that Joe’s dad had stuck around long enough to teach him shit.
