Listen, I know I do awesome work. Arrogant or not, I’ve busted my ass at my craft, and the number of commissions I get tells me it’s all paid off. But there’s something to be said about Arlo recognizing it and not letting me shove things down. That’s what I’m trying to work on, after all.
“Thank you. While not one of my favorite pieces, it did look really good with their style.”
I put the truck in reverse and start driving back to Bluebell Falls. Being away from anyone that could “catch us” feels dangerous. Like I could just get my taste of him without consequences. It’s complete bullshit, but my body doesn’t get the message. It’s pleasantly warm from his admiration, and the libido I tried to shove down is peeking its head out, seeing if the coast is clear.
We’re on the road for about ten minutes before the silence between us is broken.
“I’ve always wanted one of your pieces,” he says like he’s talking about what he wants for dinner.
I’ve never been shy about building furniture for the people in my life. I’ve built half of the shit in Ainsley and Ledger’s house. Lennox has a couple of things he really wanted, and there’s a smattering of my work throughout the entire town.
If he had asked, I’d have made him something in a heartbeat.
That’s not true. You would have told him to fuck off if it was before a couple of months ago.
Yeah, bitch of reason, you might have a point.
“What would you want?” I ask instead of the logical response of “send me a commission inquiry”. We’re just friends, and barely at that. I should be trying to keep it that way.
“I honestly have no clue. It’s not like my tiny house is something I’ve put a lot of thought into. If I had one of your pieces, I’d want it to be a focal point in my house, you know? Build the whole damn thing around it.”
“The whole house?” I ask, thinking surely not. It’s just a piece of furniture. I could see decorating a room around a custom piece, but not a whole-ass house.
“Oh yeah. I wouldn’t even know how to narrow it down to one piece,” he muses, completely unaware of what his words are doing to me.
Vulnerable.
I’m torn between changing the subject entirely, fleeing before I get any deeper, and leaning into this feeling. Letting the desire to be something to him again take over.
My thoughts are all over the place, confused as hell and wondering how I can even be thinking about anything other than friendship with the man who broke my heart.
Yes, remember what he did and steel yourself against it.
But that’s a problem in and of itself, isn’t it? I said I don’t forgive him completely yet, but that I wanted to grow our relationship. If that’s truly what I meant, then I need to stop holding our past over his head, even if it’s only in my thoughts.
It’s not healthy and doesn’t actually help me grow as a person like I’m trying really hard to do.
“Hey.” His deep voice startles me as much as his hand on my thigh does. “I’m sorry. If I took that too far, I apologize.”
“No, no, it’s absolutely not you. I … overthought the shit out of your statement.” I let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m a bit of a mess. I’m sorry. I keep thinking about taking things slow and working on our friendship again, but then you say things like that and I just…”
“Just what, Emmerdeur?”
That nickname gets me every single time.
“Just want to say fuck it all and jump into the free fall.”
His hand squeezes my leg, and I realize I’ve been so lost in our conversation that we’re almost back to my house.
He says nothing as I pull into the driveway in front of my barn, hand still on my thigh.
I turn to face him, trying desperately to think of something to say, or hell, a direction to go with him.
His eyes, that gorgeous brown like a perfectly stained piece of walnut, heat as they trail over every inch of my face.
Desire spikes in my veins.
I don’t know who moves first, but it doesn’t matter anyway. All that matters is our lips touching as his hand slides into my hair, holding me to him.
