The thought makes me grin because, either way, Holt’s reaction to me this morning was not that of a man who isn’t interested.
Quite the opposite.
I eat breakfast alone and wrap up the leftovers to put in the fridge for him before cleaning up the dishes and wiping down the table.
While I’m running the rag over the tabletop, I again notice the craftsmanship.
The wood is smooth beneath my fingers, the grain rich and warm, and the inlay has been crafted with so much precision that it’s impossible for me not to be impressed by the skill that must have been involved in creating it.
I glance around the room, suddenly seeing the cabin with new eyes. All of the furniture is solid. Built to last.
Built by Holt.
There’s still so much I don’t know about him.
But I plan on finding out.
I toss the rag into the sink and wipe my hands on my leggings.
He did say to make myself at home. And curiosity has always been my weakness.
Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to do.
In Holt’s room, I dig through my duffel bag for a hoodie, but my eyes land on one ofhis discarded flannel shirts hanging over the back of the chair in the corner.
That’ll do.
As soon as I slip my arms through the fabric, I’m enveloped by his scent.
The shirt is huge on me. Even when I roll up the sleeves, I’m completely dwarfed by the flannel. It’s perfect.
At the front door, I tug my white tennis shoes on but hesitate before heading out. They’re the only shoes I have, and the mud beyond the porch looks serious.
I find a pair of discarded rubber boots that are way too big for me, but perfect for me to slide on over my tennis shoes.
I’m sure I look ridiculous, but I don’t care as I make my way outside.
The air is crisp and cool. It smells fresh in a way that even the biggest rainstorm in the city can’t replicate. I pause for a moment to fill my lungs.
Even though it’s still raining, there’s something peaceful and beautiful about the forest that calms me.
I pull the shirt up over my head as I make my way down the path to the workshop behind the house. The sound of power tools reaches me before I slip inside the barn-style door.
With his back to me, Holt doesn’t notice me right away. I don’t want to startle him while he’s working with the tools, so I’m careful to stay perfectly still, which affords me the chance to watch him unguarded.
He’s completely absorbed by what he’s doing. Clearly in his element, he looks focused, his sure, steady movements running the wood carefully through the machine over and over again.
There’s something undeniably attractive about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Finally, he clicks the machine off and runs his hand over the board he’s been working with.
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I say lightly.
He looks up and jerks around, surprise flashing across his face before it settles into something more guarded.
Something almost careful.
And just like that, I know I made the right choice by coming out here.
