Page 63 of Nailed

She shrugged. “That wasn’t on my mind. Then again, I’d actually met you, so maybe that’s why I didn’t get that vibe.”

I gave her a grateful smile. “Either way, it’s not like I don’t get where they’re coming from, even if they got my intentions wrong. It’s their home. I understand why they’d be so protective over it.”

Clara glanced at me. “You’re a big old softie inside, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I most definitely am not, you’re deluding yourself,” I said, turning my head to look outside of the window. The city’s gritty skyline blurred past in a jagged silhouette of steel and glass. People occupied the sidewalks, all taking full advantage of the warm afternoon sun.

“Lauren. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an exceptionally bad liar?” Clara asked.

“Maybe once or twice,” I muttered.

“Hmm.”

“Seeing as we’re on the topic of your inability to lie, what’s going on back at the firehouse?” Clara asked.

I knew what she was referring to. But I played dumb. If I couldn’t lie, well, I’d simply omit a few details.

“I have Cornerstone’s best setting up velvet barstools in my living room,” I said glibly.

Clara narrowed her eyes at me, but my phone ringing cut off any further prodding from her.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, Cal,” I answered. And was met with the most ungodly high-pitched whining. Brock’s table saw.

“Hey, Lauren! I just wanted to let you know that the tables and chairs arrived like five minutes ago. Everything looks good so that’s one less thing you have to worry about. Hey, Rafe, think you can cut that out for just a sec?” he yelled, directing his attention to the background.

Shit.

I looked at Clara, whose face must’ve been the mirror of my own horror.

“Cal!” I shouted back. “Cal, where are those chairs right now?”

“They’re right…” and that’s when the penny dropped. “Oh, shit!”

Velvet and sawdust. As the other end of the line devolved into chaos, Clara stepped on the gas, speeding us toward damage control as fast as she could within the confines of the law.

*

“I can’t believe that little prick used my table saw without my permission,” Brock muttered, shaking his head as he took a sip of water. The two of us were having a rare moment of peace in the kitchen after the near-catastrophe with the chairs.

“It’s kind of my fault,” I grimaced. “I asked him to run a few bevel cuts on the plywood backing for my larger prints. It was just awful timing and he’s been distracted so…”

Brock’s frown tightened but he didn’t say anything about it.

“It’s all good, though. Cal threw himself in the splash zone and took most of the shavings to his back,” I said.

Brock actually chuckled and I felt a surge of satisfaction. “What an idiot.”

“Hey, he’s not an idiot,” I warned.

“I say that with affection,” he added.

“You?” Now it was my turn to laugh.