“What’s that?” Harrison asked as he stepped behind the counter. “A fancy pen?”
I passed it over for him to see. “One of Randy’s.”
“Nice,” he replied with a nod. Then he handed it back. “Good craftsmanship. When did you get it?”
“Over the weekend. Remember that art market I said my friend was dragging me to?”
“Yeah?”
“He had a booth there.”
“I bet that made you happy.”
I smiled. “He had this bowl on display. The tree grew on the side of a mountain, and there was so much tension in the grain. But he somehow managed to keep the pith without it checking.”
He chuckled. “Only people who regularly work with wood would recognize how hard that is.”
I nodded. “Even he said there was luck to it.”
“I imagine.” He paused. “So why did you get a pen?”
My face warmed. “I asked him what he did with the scraps he buys. He said he makes pens and other small things.” I paused. “This one was from one of the pieces I saved for him.”
There was a beat of silence, then, “You should leave it at home.”
I blinked and turned to him. “Why?”
He chuckled. “You haven’t worked retail before. Pens go missing all the time, no matter how careful you are. You could set it on the counter, only to have a customer use it and walk off with it. You could drop it somewhere. I get the sentiment, but that pen is special. So keep it safe at home and use the ones with our logo here.”
I swallowed and nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Hell,” he continued. “I’ll man the counter if you want to take it right to your truck.”
Part of me didn’t want to let the pen out of my sight, but his advice was solid. “Yeah… I think that’s a good idea.”
He reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “Hey, just think. He remembers which scraps you set aside for him.”
I smiled. “Yeah.”
I pushed off from the counter. “I’ll be right back.”
I ran my thumb over the wood barrel of the pen as I strode out to where I’d parked—trying to memorize how it felt under my skin. It was smooth, almost like glass. Not a single dip in the finish or hint of the swirling pattern I could see in the grain.
I set the pen on my truck’s instrument panel so that it wasn’t as visible to passersby, and better protected from the sun. Then I trudged back to the showroom.
Harrison was pushing the broom, and there wasn’t much else for me to do, so I decided to sort my scrap collection.
I’d limited myself to only keeping ten pieces—and hoping that Randy would think that was a more acceptable amount. But that meant that I often had to decide whether a new find was better than an old one.
He’d told me that he’d likely be in that week. Unless he decided to come in when I wasn’t working, that meant that I needed to make sure that I was happy with my selection.
I pulled the bin from under the counter and frowned. On top was a piece that I definitely hadn’t selected—and was way larger than a scrap.
“Assholes,” I muttered.
“What’s up?” Harrison asked, looking up from where he was sweeping.
“Ah, somebody in the back just fucking with me,” I grumbled. “They put trash in my bin. Just look at this.”
