“Well, it’s not a secret, and I’m not going to kill you,” he retorted. “Probably.”
I laughed.
“Get my coffee, and get in the truck, princess,” Maverick ordered as he walked around the front of his truck.
It wasn’t until I had his coffee in hand and was walking back outside that I realized he had called me princess. The word had come out of his mouth so naturally that it felt normal.It was normal for us once upon a time.If he noticed, he didn’t say a word when I climbed in his truck alongside Duke. We both went on pretending like it didn’t happen, but it was hard to ignore how my chest warmed with a familiar sensation.
The gutted little beach house he’d bought was gone. In its place stood a gorgeous cottage that overlooked the water. Time and effort had transformed the place into something incredible. Weathered wood siding wrapped around the exterior, the uneven color adding to its charm. There were wide windows and soft gray shutters that matched the painted front door.
Wispy green grass rolled across his front and back yard, fading into sand as it approached the lake. A narrow stone path led up to the front door and disappeared around the side of the house. Some of the stones were painted in bright colors in only a way that a little kid would do—something that made me smile to know he’d let his nephew help.
As he stopped in front of the garage, I caught a glimpse of a big deck off the back of the house as it faced the lake. I knew without asking that he spent hours out there, just watching the water and relaxing.
And if the inside was anything like the outside, it was a testament to his talent and probably his stubbornness as well.
“This is incredible, Mav,” I said as I got out of the truck, my gaze still roaming over the whole place and trying to take in every detail I could. I was barely out before Duke was barreling through me and running across the lawn.
“Get your ass back here, you little shit! Duke!” Maverick hollered. The dog skidded to a stop and came trotting back, looking all too pleased with himself despite being yelled at. “Sorry, he’s psycho. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No, I’m fine,” I replied with a laugh.
“Good. I’d show you the inside, but if I open that door before he’s clean, he’ll terrorize every surface possible,” he explained.The way he talked about Duke was like the way some people talked about their kids.“He’s a great dog, I swear. My workshop is in the garage anyway.”
“Where do you put your truck?” I asked. He gestured to where it was parked as if that should’ve been obvious. “I should’ve assumed that.”
“You’re good,” he said as he entered a code on the garage opener.
The door creaked quietly as it rolled up, revealing what looked nothing like an average garage. The concrete floor was swept clean, but years of sawdust had settled in the cracks between slabs. The scent of fresh-cut wood, mixed with the lake air, filled the space as I wandered inside. Worn-down workbenches lined the walls, and tools hung in organized rows above them, hanging between windows that looked out over the lake. Therewere saws, chisels, clamps, and other things that I didn’t know the name of.
Pieces of driftwood were stacked everywhere and sorted by size. Some leaned against the walls, while some were laid out across the workbenches. They varied from pale silver to a deep honey brown, each piece worn smooth to varying degrees by the lake. Some were still rough while others had already been sanded down.
One workbench held the projects that were clearly still in progress—small shelves, carved hooks, and even a few pieces that looked more like sculpture than furniture. Each one carried the same rustic character, the kind that couldn’t be manufactured or rushed.
And in the middle of the room was an elevated tabletop in a mold made of multiple pieces of driftwood set in resin. The resin was poured in a technique that created waves in shades of blue.
“This is gorgeous,” I whispered.
“I’m not a fan of resin, but I get a lot of requests for it. Mostly because I can piece together more driftwood to create something cohesive like a dining table,” Maverick said.
“You sell these?” My eyes widened slightly. I wasn’t expecting that.
“When I got out of jail, my sponsor would let me fiddle with the shit he had in his garage,” he explained as he sat on the only stool in the room. “It became an outlet for me. He would randomly buy tools to keep in his garage for me to use. Anyway, Bobby knows everyone. He’s just kind ofthatguy, and when he’d have people over, they’d ask questions about my work in his garage.
“Instead of turning people away, he just started selling my stuff, and then he’d give me the money. It became a whole thing between us. As I built out my workspace here, I started collecting driftwood and trying new things. I don’t take custom requestsoften. It’s just easier to sell what I’ve got, and that’s mostly because I don’t want to keep any of the shit I make. Roxy helps with all that. I have done a few pieces for out-of-towners who pick their shit up when they come on vacation.”
“That’s incredible.”Incredibledidn’t begin to describe it, but I was out of words. I was just in awe of him. “How much does a table like this go for?”
“Resin jacks the price up,” he replied. “So that one… between time and product… it’ll probably be three to four grand. The most expensive resin table I did was for a company up north. They wanted a conference table. It was huge and a pain in the ass to get there, but they paid the fifteen-thousand-dollar price tag without thinking. It’s in all the pictures on their website, and I’ve turned down a few requests from their associates.”
I knewmanypeople who would pay good money for a conversation piece like the table in front of me. I didn’t say that, though, because I had a feeling he didn’t want that.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “It’s just a hobby for me.”
“Just a hobby?” I repeated. “My book club is a hobby. This is real talent.”
“You’re in a book club?”
“I joined a book club. It started out as classic literature, but I got bored, so I started reading fantasy. And then the next thing I know, I’m reading about fairies fucking for six books.”
