“I just need to tighten the screws,” I mumble, as if that will somehow restore my dignity.
Why am I like this? Why can’t I say something normal like “yes please, help before I die under flatpack”?
He taps the wall lightly. “This is plasterboard. You need proper fixings.”
My cheeks ignite.Brilliant. Perfect. Love that for me.
“I can do it,” I mutter, stubborn out of pure self-preservation.
“I believe you can do many things,” he says with a soft laugh, “but shelf-building isn’t one of them.”
I bristle automatically. “I am capable. And what would a mountain rescuer know about shelf building.”
“Mountain rescuing doesn’t pay the bills. We are all volunteers. I’m a carpenter, a bloody good carpenter, actually.” He winks.
Be still my… vagina.
“So, I’m definitely better qualified than you,” he chuckles.
He gestures at the collapsed shelf like a barrister presenting evidence.
Do not die. Do not run. Do not throw yourself into the flower buckets. Just breathe.
He grins completely unbothered by my inner turmoil that surely must be written all over my face.
“What were you planning?” he asks, tilting his head.
Right. Words. Use them. Normal people use them.
I explain the idea. He listens patiently, picking up one of the statues with surprising gentleness.
“I like it,” he says. “Dark oak shelves with a moss green backdrop would look incredible.”
The idea hits me square in the chest.
“It would,” I say, then immediately panic that I sounded too enthusiastic. “But oak isn’t in the budget.”
He shrugs. “Then let me fix these.”
“That’s not—”
He steps closer, slow and careful. I tell myself to step back.
I do not step back.
His hand lifts and he touches his fingertip to my lips.
My heart stops. My brain stops. My entire nervous system resigns.
“Let me help,” he says quietly. “That’s all.”
Words? Gone.
Utterly gone.
So I nod. Like a puppet. A puppet who has absolutely no control over her own neck.
“You close at four?” he asks.
