I shrug, reaching over to pull the blanket back up around her. “Hasn’t come up.”
“Can I see it?” She’s already pushing the blanket off, reaching for my hand. “Woodworking men are very sexy, you know. This is important information I need to verify.”
I laugh and let her pull me up from the chair. “It’s not much to look at right now. I haven’t been out there in a while.”
“Show me.”
I grab the bottle of wine and lead her across the yard, the grass crunching slightly with frost under our feet. The cold air bites at my skin after the warmth of the fire pit, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as we walk.
The workshop is a converted garage about thirty feet from the main house. A couple years back I insulated it properly, ran electrical, added heating so I could work out here year-round. At least, that was the plan.
I flip on the lights. Workbenches line the walls, cluttered with hand planes and chisels and clamps of various sizes. Sawdust still coats the concrete floor despite the fact that I haven’t made anything in longer than I want to admit. The whole space smells like wood shavings and machine oil, familiar and nostalgic.
And in the center of the room, taking up most of the space on two heavy sawhorses, isthe slab.
“Oh my god.” Emma walks toward it slowly, her hand reaching out to touch the surface. Her fingers trace along the grain. “Theo, this is gorgeous. What is it?”
“Black walnut.” I follow her, running my own hand along the wood. It really is beautiful: rich dark brown with streaks of honey and amber running through it. A piece like this is rare. “I bought it around the time Chloe was born, from a guy up near Bellingham.”
“It’s massive.” She traces one of the live edges, her fingers catching on the rough bark. “What were you going to make with it?”
“A bar.” I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms over my chest. “For Harbor & Ash. I had this whole vision for a statement piece. Something people would walk in and notice, something that would make the restaurant feel like more than just a place to eat.” I can still see it in my head, clear as the day I first imagined it. “I was going to build it myself. Every inch of it.”
She looks up at me, her expression soft. “What happened?”
I let out a breath, staring at the slab. Years of good intentions gone nowhere.
“Life, I guess.” I run my hand through my hair. “The restaurant got busier than I expected, which was good, don’t get me wrong, but it meant longer hours, more stress, less time for anything else. Then Victoria and I divorced, and suddenly I was a single dad working trying to keep everything from falling apart.” I gesture vaguely at the workshop around us. “So the wood just sat here. I kept telling myself I’d get to it eventually, but...”
I trail off. There’s no good ending to that sentence. She’s quiet for a moment, studying the slab, running her palm across the smooth surface. Then she looks up at me with a thoughtful expression. “Do you still want to finish it?” she asks. “It’s beautiful. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I do.”
“Then you should.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Life’s too short to let beautiful things sit in a garage collecting dust.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is simple.” She walks over to me and slides her arms around my waist, looking up at me with those green eyes. “Not easy. But simple. You want to do it, so do it. Stop waiting for the perfect time.” She squeezes me gently. “There’s no such thing as the perfect time. There’s just now.”
I pull her closer, my hands settling on her hips. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise.” She smiles up at me. “You’re just now noticing.”
I kiss her then, slow and deep, tasting wine on her lips. She melts into me, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt, and when I pull back we’re both a little breathless. The workshop is quiet around us, just the hum of the heater and the sound of our breathing.
She glances around the space, then back at me, something mischievous flickering in her expression. “You know, it’s not even that cold in here,” she says, stepping back slightly.
I laugh, not sure where she’s going with this. “Random observation, but yes. I insulated it properly a few years back, which helps protect all the wood I keep in here for storage. There’s a loft up there too.” I point toward the ladder in the corner leading to the upper level. “More lumber, some finished pieces I’ve made over the years.”
Emma nods slowly, her eyes traveling around the workshop. Then she looks back at me.
“I’m just thinking,” she says, her voice dropping lower, “that I’ve never been fucked in a woodshop before.” She tilts her head, pretending to consider it. “Maybe that would be nice.”
My throat goes dry. Every coherent thought I had vanishes.
She takes a step back, holding my gaze, and reaches for the hem of her sweater. She pulls it over her head slowly, deliberately, and drops it on the workbench beside her. Underneath she’s wearing a thin camisole that clings to her curves, and she peels that off too, letting it fall to the floor.
The bra is black lace, barely there. Sheer enough that I cansee everything through it. Her nipples are already hard, pressing against the delicate fabric, the pink of her skin visible beneath the intricate pattern. It’s the kind of bra that’s not designed to support anything. It’s designed to be looked at. To be torn off.
