“Now you know where I get it,” JJ says. “These two can spin a yarn, can’t they? Let’s all give them a hand.” She goes on to assure the guests that their stories can be set in modern day, a historical era, or even a fantasy world. It all depends on the storytellers and where they choose to take it.
A flare of excitement sparks in my chest. I can’t wait to see what my patrons come up with. Maybe I can get Kirsten and Beau up there. Just as that thought crosses my mind, I catch eyes with JJ across the room. I lock eyes with her, then nod pointedly in Kirsten and Beau’s direction.
JJ’s eyes land on the happy couple before she looks back at me with a thumbs up. “I’ll get ‘em,” she mouths.
I grin.
This ought to be good.
7
Braxton
The watch station in this old caboose is one of a kind. It was one of my greatest selling points in the remodel mock-up. The upper portion at the far end of the caboose is separated with an aisle in the center. Short ladders lead to two separate nooks with shallow booth seats and windows all around. When this baby was on rails, the locomotion crew would sit on the upper level and keep their eyes pinned on the track up ahead. Then, with a hearty series of tugs on the cord, the crew could alert the driver to potential danger.
Now, this area will serve as the best seats in the house. The extra space will hold up to four people on either side, with asmall, round table in the center. Rather than keeping the bucket-type seats as they are, I designed a circular seating area like booths at a restaurant, open only where the ladder allows them to come and go.
This way, guests can slide into the seat which gives them a perfect view of the crashing waves as the sun comes up. From the opposite side, patrons can watch the crowded pier with its hanging lights and flying, feathered friends. At night, they can enjoy a view of the lighthouse, standing stalwart and tall, its steady light guiding ships back to the foaming shore.
Carpentry is an art to me, and I’m glad I pulled back from building houses full-time to do what I enjoy most. I’m drawn to certain specialty jobs the way I’m drawn to certain women—ones that excite me while presenting a challenge at the same time.
Of course, finding out that my New Year’s date was married—that’snotthe sort of challenge I’m looking for. Talk about a waste of time. I should have taken Kirsten up on the invite to go to her place. But no, I wanted Maggie to know I had better things to do with my holiday. Boy, did that backfire?
An image of Maggie comes to mind. The feisty redhead might challenge me, but she most definitely does not excite me.
Yet even as I think it, a spot of heat flickers low in my belly. Okay, so she’s attractive. And she’sintriguing; I’ll give her that too. I admire the way she scored a Coffee Loft franchise of her own. Plus, she has a good eye; the old train station is a gem, and since the prior owner had let the place run down, I hear she got it for a steal.
Still, Kirsten’s younger sister is a stubborn little thing andproud too. It didn’t take much to get her goat when I pointed out Nobly’s faulty work and sloppy shortcuts. She couldn’t even swallow her pride enough to tell me how much she liked the design ideas I came up with.
Of course, she does come in each day dressed in polished, semi-casual attire. The dainty redhead weaves her way through the cramped workspace, careful not to trip over the scattered tools and days’ worth of debris while she checks out my work. She gives me compliments here and there, nothing too generous, and before leaving, she offers the coffee of my choice on the house, which I gladly take her up on.
Most days, I say very little in return, which isn’t hard.
During lunch with my brothers last week, I claimed Maggie wasn’t my type. But in a lot of ways, the ambitious redhead isexactlymy type. She’s fit, attractive, and has that snarky edge I can’t help but be drawn to. And let’s not forget that chemistry. It’s alive and kicking. When Maggie sets those hazel eyes on me, filled with barely masked irritation and disdain for yours truly—I long to igniteotheremotions. I imagine a guy has to bust his back to gain her approval. She’s hard to get, which is why no one’s caught her yet.
If she wasn’t Kirsten’s sister, I’d have probably already tested the waters this week to see if I could crack that frosty little shell of hers and find out what makes her tick. As it is, the soap opera circumstance surrounding us—Kirsten urging me on while Beau insists I steer clear—has me remaining squarely in my lane. Get the job done and move on, Braxton.
I finish hammering in the final bowed board for the rooftop when my phone lets out a buzz. I slide my hammer back intomy belt and grab my phone; I’ve been meaning to check the time anyway. It’s getting dark out. I tap the screen to read the new text.
Beau: You just about finished? If so, stop by the main shop before you leave. Kirsten and I are here, and I ordered you a drink. Chantel says she knows your favorite.
That she does, I glance toward the main shop. I had a coffee right when I got here, and I plan to grab another before I take off. It’s hard not to crave it when I’m inhaling that aroma all day. The rich, distinct smell of roasted coffee beans, combined with the intoxicating scent of fresh-cut wood, has made this job even better than most.
Braxton:All right, man, thanks. See you in a min.
I pack up for the day; chest puffed with pride from a job well done, mouth watering for that frothy cappuccino. I feel great about the work I got done today, and I feel even better knowing I’ll have a nice drink to warm me on the way home. If I hurry, I’ll catch the second half of the game. Not that I’m terribly invested now that the Seahawks are down.
The lot is even more crowded than usual. Cars line the roadside, starting at the Coffee Loft and continuing as far as the eye can see. As soon as I pull open the entrance door, I sense the mass energy of a crowded space. I duck my head as I weave through a few people who’ve migrated into the walkway leading to the counter. Beau catches my gaze with the hook of one arm, motioning for me to join him and Kirsten, who’s lifting a pair of coats off a spare chair and pulling them onto her lap.
“Chantel’s starting your drink now,” Beau says.
“Thanks,” I say. It might be rude to skip out on the show, but I’m not about to stay. I shift my gaze to the mock stage where a couple stands awkwardly facing one another, mics in their hands.
“So finally,” a chick who’s probably in her early twenties says, “Brinley is sure she’s worked up the nerve to tell her best friend, Mason, that she likes him. She figures she can tell him during the ballgame. Or maybe right after. So long as she doesn’t chicken out.”
A chime sounds, and all eyes shift to the male standing opposite her. He’s tall, gawky, and, from what I can tell, nervous.
Beau leans in and taps my arm. “It’s an improv storytelling. A couple goes up and takes their best shot at telling a story.”
