“Can I watch?” I ask.
He raises a brow at me and says, “Really?”
“I’m interested in the process, and Rosie clearly wants to keep eating in peace. She’ll be fine without me.”
Jonah nods, and I follow him out to his truck. He fiddles around with some things in the back, and when he steps away I see a small box with a flame going inside of it.
“What’s that?” I ask, peering at it.
“A forge,” he says simply.
“A forge? Like a blacksmith would have? Don’t tell me you’re going to get an anvil out next.”
In answer, he lifts an anvil out of the back of the truck like it weighs nothing and places it on a stand.
“Blacksmith confirmed,” I mutter, watching carefully as he lays out his tools and then takes a horseshoe out. He strips his coat and flannel shirt off, revealing a plain black t-shirt underneath, arms covered in a myriad of black tattoos. He heats the shoe up in the forge for a few minutes, and when he pulls it out, it’s glowing bright orange.
Jonah starts pounding the shoe into shape, his arm muscles flexing as he does. With every pound of the hammer, I’m made aware of how much power and focus is contained in his frame. What would it be like to have all of that power and focus directed at me? What would it be like to feel those muscles flexing on top of me, to have that strong body pounding into mine?
I never thought I’d feel jealous of a horse shoe, but here I am, gazing longingly at the hot metal Jonah is beating into shape. I rub the back of my hand against my lips, just to make sure I’m not drooling.
It’s over pretty quickly, which is good because I’m not sure how much more of it I can stand—I don’t want to end up staring at him and panting like a dog. I follow Jonah back over to where Rosie is standing. He catches her hoof easily this time, as she’s too busy eating to care any longer, and smoke billows out dramatically as he fits the shoe to her.
“So,” he says standing up and dropping Rosie’s hoof once he’s done. “You want to explain to me why you left in the middle of my set last night? And didn’t come back until the next act came on?”
10
JONAH
Winnie’s mouthdrops open in surprise at my question. “You noticed I left? It was packed in there and I tried to leave quietly.”
“You don’t exactly blend into a crowd, Winnie. Not in your pink boots.” And especially not in that flimsy, tantalizingly cut shirt she had on last night, but I leave that part out. I tried not to notice it at the time and I’m trying real hard not to notice how good she looks right now, too. Sure, she’s just wearing a sweater, jeans, and a puffy jacket, but the woman is drop-dead gorgeous. I’ve come to the realization that it doesn’t matter what she wears—she’s a stunner.
“Fine. I’m sorry I left,” she says not meeting my eyes. “But there was a huge crowd there. Why does it matter?”
“I want to know why.”
“Why what?” she asks in an innocent tone.
“Don’t try and evade the question, Winnie. I want to know why you left when it was so clear you enjoyed listening to Jewel’s set, even if it made you emotional. What was it about my performance that sent you running?”
“I just felt like I needed some air, okay? It wasn’t about you specifically. And I thought I’d catch the end of your set but when I came back in the next guy was already playing.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say stubbornly.
“Why not?”
“Because nothing with you is as it seems, and I’m going to figure out what’s going on.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” she says, a note of anger entering her voice. “What I do or who I am is none of your concern. Why are you so interested in me anyways?”
“Because I can’t…” I stop myself from continuing. I was about to say that I can’t help her unless I know what is wrong, but it’s not my responsibility to help her, and she’s never said she wants any either. I naturally take on the role of the fixer, but Winnie’s not a horse who needs new shoes or my parents who need help with their bills. She hasn’t asked me for anything, and my desire to help her is one I need to quash. Nothing good is going to come from getting tangled up with her.
“Because nothing,” I say. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“Good. And there’s nothing to explain,” she says, finally looking at me and meeting my eyes. “I was fine last night, and I’m fine now. Better than fine, in fact.”
“Sure,” I respond blandly, though I don’t believe her.
