Page 79 of Just Ten Seconds

“Intense?” I suggest.

“Intrusive.” He smiles. “I’ve never had my personal space so violated before. Good news is, we have a new cast member.”

“That is good news. I think her son could use the exposure. He’s a bit of a recluse.”

He nods, his gaze trained straight on mine. “It seems to bring out the best in people.”

There’s a tingling up my spine at his words. It’s not just the theater that brings out the best in people. It’s Dean. He’s a protector, a guiding force, and when he looks at me, it’s as if he’s saying I can be the best. I know I’m not, but for some reason, at this moment, I’m not frightened to think I could be a little better.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you leave the address to wherever it is you want me to go, and I’ll meet you there when I get off work?” I say.

“You sure? Because I was planning on camping out here for the next six hours.” He’s grinning, but I know he’s serious.

“Positive. So, where am I going?”

After work, I stop home and shower because after an eight-hour shift at the café, I smell like bacon grease and eggs. I apply some light makeup and leave my hair down in loose waves before tossing on a cornflower-blue jogging suit and slide on sneakers.

As I navigate the back roads, I drive along the lake and look at my navigation to see where to turn next. The roads wind around the lake and lead me to a modest-sized home set deep off the street.

It’s a brown chalet-style home composed of wood with a high-peaked roof and sloping eaves. There’s a large wraparound porch and small glass windows on the first and second stories.

I exit the car and see one of those funny gnomes, just like the ones he has at his house, on the gravel. This one has a surfboard and a cocktail with a sign that reads, It’s five o’clock somewhere.

I walk up the steps and knock on the door. No one answers, but I can hear music coming from the back. I walk along the deck toward where the music gets louder. Before alerting my presence, I stop and appreciate the sight.

Dean is on the back deck, wearing blue jeans that hug his ass perfectly. He has a door lying on two small ladders as he uses a sanding tool to smooth it down. His T-shirt stretches as he leans over the door, accentuating his back muscles as he works.

Watching him work with his hands is oddly attractive and, dare I say, erotic. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent my life around well-manicured men who consider signing with a pen as heavy lifting, but watching a man—a real man—work in the outdoors with a power tool has the blood moving from my head down low.

I clear my throat loudly, and Dean turns around. When he sees me, a huge smile ignites his face.

He turns the tool off and then the radio.

“Where is that going?” I point to the door.

“Master bedroom. I still have to stain it.” He lifts the door and rests it against the railing.

It’s now that I realize the other view. The lake.

“Wow,” I say as I glance out at the silver-blue water, stilled in the afternoon.

The clouds above are gray with tiny rays of sunset trying to push through. It lights up the treetops that surround the body of water. Orange, gold, and red leaves fill the trees that are rich with autumn splendor.

“I know.” He looks out at the lake with me. “Lakefront property is one thing, but a view like this?” His chest swells with an inhale. “Wait until you see it from upstairs. Come, let me show you around.”

Dean unplugs his sander and brings it inside along with the door and the ladder. He closes the sliding glass door, and we’re left inside a large living room, freshly painted in a crisp linen, with exposed wood beams in a walnut-colored lacquer.

He walks to the fireplace of large river rock. “The fireplace is the only original thing in the room. I ripped it down to the studs and put in new Sheetrock and inserted high-hat lighting to keep the ceiling height and make the room feel larger.”

Dean is a tall man, so the fact that he doesn’t make the room feel small with his presence means he’s done something right with the design.

He walks me past a dining area that has a rustic farm table with two chairs and a bench—the only piece of furniture on the entire floor. “I made this from the old front door and some reclaimed wood I’d salvaged on demolition day. It has a lot of imperfections, but it’s sturdy.”

I graze my hand over the table and feel the rough edges of the wood. There are dings and scratches in it and a discolored area along the edge that looks like it’s from a dog scratching to come inside. Despite its flaws, it’s a piece of solid wood, sturdy and ready for many more years of use.

“It’s perfectly imperfect.”

When I look up at him, there’s a crinkle in his eyes as he looks at me the same way I was just looking at the door. In wonderment.