She takes a few steps before she pauses and turns back to me. “Leif?”
“Yes?”
“Be on time.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “The clock’s ticking on those projects.”
Then she continues down the path, her stride long and confident, silver hair catching the strengthening morning light. She reaches Jared, and they both board the waiting taxi, and within minutes, the vessel pulls away from the dock, leaving a white wake across the harbor water.
The sun clears the horizon, burning away the pink dawn into clear morning light. I turn back to my car, planning to wait until the taxi returns with Quinn in an hour.
As I settle in the driver’s seat again, the pressure around my chest tightens and eases at the same time.
The gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull into Emily’s driveway five minutes early, according to my dashboard clock.
My knuckles ache from gripping the steering wheel too hard during the drive. I shut off the engine and sit in silence, watching the cottage through the windshield. Morning sunlight filters through the surrounding pines, casting dappled shadows across the red roof and yellow door.
The car door closes with a solid thunk behind me, and I roll my shoulders back, trying to release the tension that’s made its home between my shoulder blades since my conversation with Carson. The fresh air fills my lungs, pine and cedar mingling with wood smoke from someone’s chimney.
Before I reach the porch, the yellow door swings open. Emily stands in the doorway, dressed in worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her silver hair catches the morning light, and she holds a steaming mug in one hand.
“Right on time,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
The cottage welcomes me with its scent of fresh bread, and underlying that is Emily’s pheromones of crushed clover and warm flannel mingled with Jared’s salt air and driftwood. The two combined fill the space with the comforting scent of a beachside retreat in fall, comforting despite my nerves.
Emily hands me a mug from the counter, our fingers brushing, and the contact sends a spike of heat up my arm. I lock down my pheromones as best I can, not wanting to shout my interest in this cozy space for two.
I take a sip of the dark brew to avoid meeting her eyes.
“Did you eat?” she asks, lifting a cloth from a basket of muffins.
My stomach churns at the thought of food. “I’m good, but thank you.”
Emily’s nostrils flare, smelling the anxiety I can’t quite hide, though there’s no way for her to know what triggered it.
She doesn’t comment as she drops the cloth and moves toward the back door. “I have everything set up in the workshop, so we should be done in no time.”
I follow her across the yard, the dew-damp grass soaking the edges of my loafers. Morning light gleams off the windows of her workshop, and birds call from nearby trees, forming a pocket of calm outside the stressors in my life.
Inside, the warm scent of sawdust and linseed oil surrounds us. My projects wait on the main workbench, the bookshelf and shoe rack we built together, sanded smooth, stained, and ready for their final treatment. Beside them, brushes and cans of clear polyurethane wait.
“We’ll start with the shelf,” she says, pulling on a work apron and passing me one to protect my slacks and dress shirt. “The flat surfaces make it easier to apply an even coat.”
She demonstrates the technique, her movements fluid with confidence as she dips the brush and applies the finish in long, smooth strokes. “Always go with the grain and keep a wet edge to avoid lap marks.”
I mimic her movements on the opposite side of the shelf, focusing on the physical task. The repetitive motion soothes my frayed nerves, and the wood grain reveals itself under the glossy finish, each whorl and line highlighted by the liquid.
“You’ve got a good technique,” Emily comments, watching my brush strokes. “Steady hand.”
The simple praise warms me more than it should. “Must be from all those years learning to write on a whiteboard.”
She hums in agreement, and we work in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds our breathing and the whisper of brushes over wood.
“School’s been difficult,” I admit at last, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “I let it get to me too much. When I’m stressed, I tend to shut down and only focus on work.”
Emily continues working, giving me space to elaborate or not.
When I don’t, she says, “That happens sometimes.”
