10. Trent
10
TRENT
T he U-Haul rumbled beneath me, and I gritted my teeth, tightening my hands on the steering wheel. It felt like I’d sat my ass in the middle of an earthquake. I fully expected this absolute garbage excuse for a vehicle to crap out in the middle of the road any second. The guy behind the desk at the rental place had assured me it was a reliable box truck, but every time I checked one of the mirrors, I expected to see a plume of black smoke gushing from the exhaust. The last time I’d rented a U-Haul, I’d been moving into my apartment after college. Never in my life did I think I’d be doing this again. I tightened my grip, cranking the wheel hard to make the turn at the next traffic light.
Why the hell was the wheel so sticky?
I rounded the corner and honked at a couple of pedestrians that went darting out in front of me. This was not the vehicle to be playing chicken with, and I was not in the mood. The company I’d hired to deliver the old church materials Natasha had selected to her workshop had gotten their dates mixed up, and with no trucks available this weekend, I’d opted just to make the delivery myself. I could have called around for another company or waited for the movers to give me their next availability, but this was for Nana Dee, and I wanted to get the materials to Natasha as soon as possible.
The truck trundled down the road into a neighborhood of tall brownstones and streets lined with trees, some of the leaves already yellowing in the early October weather. It would be a lovely image, if the truck wasn’t sputtering so damn bad and I wasn’t trying to keep the wheel from pulling left and veering into a parked car.
At the next four-way stop, I dialed Jimmy, putting the phone on speaker and listening to it ring as I drove across the intersection. I figured it was best to keep both hands on the wheel.
“C’mon, little brother,” I muttered, looking at the house numbers. “Pick up.”
I shook my head when it went through to voicemail. “You’ve reached Jimmy Saunders. Catch you at the beep!”
“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “Again.” I let a little annoyance seep into my tone. “I’ve tried to reach you a few times over the past couple of days. Not sure if you’re just out or what, but call me back when you get this. I just want to hear how it’s going.”
With Jimmy away at Princeton, I wanted to make sure everything was all right. I knew the transition had been tough, and I was hoping to hear that he was finally settling in. I hung up the phone, spotting Natasha’s building. I pulled along the side of the street, wincing as the tires bumped along the curb. God, I hated this truck.
I cut the ignition and hopped out, heading around to the back of the U-Haul to lift the roll-up door. As I did, Natasha appeared wearing ripped jeans and a plaid shirt. She came hurrying up a short set of stairs, slowing as she spotted me. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, a couple stray curls falling down into her face. A pair of safety glasses had been wedged into the bun—it was disarmingly sexy. She leaned against a black railing, crossing her arms.
“Heard that thing rumbling all the way down the block,” she said, gesturing to the truck.
“Pretty sure it’s one pothole away from exploding,” I grumbled.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “That day when I came by to pick out what I wanted from the warehouse, I thought you said you had a moving company that would handle the delivery. Was that a lie, or do you moonlight as a mover?”
“Nah, this is what all the CEOs are doing nowadays.”
“I see. Getting hands-on experience.”
I touched my hand to my chest. “I personally like to understand every aspect of my company from the ground up. Gives it the personal touch.”
She smirked. “I assume the movers you hired fell through?”
“Yeah, double-booked or whatever. So you’ve got me instead.” For a moment I thought I saw her blush, then she turned away, heading back down the stairs.
“You can bring it through here,” she called over her shoulder.
I grabbed the first piece of lumber, carrying it down into the basement for her. She’d said she’d converted it into a workshop, but I hadn’t expected anything so elaborate. There were projects in various stages of completion and materials and power tools everywhere.
“Uh…where do you want this?”
She pointed across the room. “Leaned up against the wall over there if you can. Be careful of all the cords.”
I carried it over, taking her advice as I gingerly stepped over the power cords. “I appreciate the concern for my safety.”
She shook her head, hiding a smile as she leaned down to measure something. “Just making sure I don’t get involved in a lawsuit.”
“Ah, I see how it is,” I said. “I’m just a mover to you.”
She laughed. “You really are. You know, I think I almost prefer it to the CEO.”
I returned to the truck for the next piece and the next. Nothing was particularly heavy, just bulky and awkward to carry. I set the pieces down, crouching so I didn’t pull my back. When I noticed Natasha watching me, I flexed a bit. I’d ditched my sweatshirt in the truck, sweaty from all the back and forth.
The last of the materials I moved was the salvaged stained glass. I’d wrapped the panels in the moving blankets, and it looked like nothing had broken. Once I was finished unloading the truck, I took a beat to actually look around the workshop, studying some of the pieces in progress Natasha had set off to the side of the room.
“What?” she asked, watching me run my hands over a freshly sanded tabletop. It reminded me of being back in the shop with Papa Davis. He’d started out as a carpenter, and even after he retired from Saunders Furniture, he still loved getting hands-on and doing woodworking. He’d taught me so much.
“Nothing,” I said, quick to assure her I wasn’t judging. “You just…You really have a gift. Sort of reminds me of my grandfather’s work.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”
“You’ve got a lot of great pieces here.”
“I’m always designing,” she said. “I’ve got about a million more ideas—the problem is just finding people to buy them.”
“There should be a line of people here trying to buy your work,” I insisted, scowling when she shook her head. “I mean it, Natasha.”
She flushed an even darker shade of red. I wandered closer, wondering what it would be like to stroke the blush from her cheeks.
“Maybe one day,” she said. “Until then, I’m happy designing for Saunders Furniture.”
I crossed my arms. “Are you?”
She nodded. “I feel like I’m settling in, and like the team is warming up to me.”
“But you’d prefer to be making your own things?”
She shrugged. “Of course. There’s something special about being hands-on, about crafting the actual furniture myself. I think it makes the pieces that much more special.”
I leaned against her workbench. “When I was a kid,” I said, “my grandfather used to take me out to his shop, and I’d get to pick a project. We’d spend all week working on it. I remember the first time he let me make a birdhouse all by myself. The roof was crooked, and the entry hole was too small for any actual birds to get inside, but I was so proud of myself.”
Natasha grinned as I recounted the memory.
“There was another time where we built an entire hutch to house the rabbit I had caught out in the woods. The thing slipped out the moment I opened the door to feed it.” I laughed. “I still remember Dee chasing the poor rabbit around the yard with baby Jimmy on her hip. Papa Davis got the whole thing on camera. I’m sure we’ve got the video somewhere.”
“Your grandfather sounds like a great man,” Natasha said.
“He was. Sweet and kind and so much fun. The staff at Saunders Furniture loved him, but he was his best self with his family. He always treated Dee like royalty, and he looked out for me and Jimmy.”
She chuckled softly.
“What is it?”
“Nothing…it’s just…I got started in woodworking because of my grandpa too. He was a freelance cabinetmaker, and he used to let me sit on a stool in his workshop and sand down the pieces. I remember being mesmerized, watching him transform a piece of wood. I’d sometimes get to go with him for the installation, and there was something so beautiful about seeing that transformation come full circle. Every time I finish a piece, I’m reminded of him. And of how much transformation I’m capable of.”
“I like that,” I said, feeling a bead of connection flow between us. Grandparents were special people, and it was clear we’d both cherished ours. She lifted a large board onto the workbench. “Need a hand with that?” I offered.
“Oh, uh…” She hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “I could actually use someone to brace the board, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t have better places to be?”
I looked into her eyes. “Better than here?” I huffed. “If I did, I wouldn’t have offered.”
She ducked her head, pulling her safety glasses on as she picked up a jigsaw. “I need to cut the circular design drawn into the board. If you could sort of rotate it as you’re bracing it, that would be great.”
I nodded. “Sure.”
I braced the board with both hands, shifting it slowly as Natasha cut through the wood. When she’d finished the circular cut, she had smaller shapes she needed to cut out of the center.
“Maybe better if I stand over here,” I said, coming around beside her. “Board’s wobbling too much over there.”
“Thanks,” she said as I stood close enough to smell her perfume. Or was it her shampoo? Either way, it was damn intoxicating, and my heart sped as I imagined pressing my face to her hair and inhaling the scent. At that moment, I was aware of everything—the little bump in her nose, the dimple beneath her lips, the fluttering of her dark eyelashes. And judging by her sharp intake of breath and the flush that blossomed across her face, she was aware of me too.
My mind went back to the church, wondering again what would have happened if I had kissed her there. I hadn’t been able to forget her body pressed against mine. And judging from that picture I’d caught her drawing in her office days ago, her mind had traveled similar paths. If we both wanted this, would it really be so wrong to see where it might lead? God knew ignoring my feelings wasn’t doing a damn thing to make them go away. My heart thundered in my chest.
“Ah!” I cried as I put my hand down on the table.
Natasha gasped. “What happened?”
I lifted my hand. In my daydreaming, I’d accidentally put it down on her spare jigsaw blade, the serrated edge cutting into my palm. “Damnit!” I swore under my breath.
“You’re bleeding.” She removed her safety glasses and put the jigsaw down.
“Not much,” I said. It did hurt like a son of a bitch, though.
“I have a first aid kit,” she said, already walking away.
Ugh, how mortifying. Now she’d think I was no better than a child who didn’t know when to not touch things. “Don’t bother,” I grumbled. “It’s fine. Really.”
“Don’t bleed on the project!” she called over her shoulder.
I rolled my eyes but curled my hand away from the wood, my palm throbbing.
“You don’t need stitches, do you?”
“It’s not that deep.” At least I didn’t think it was. “Seriously, I’ll go and get it checked out. You don’t have to worry.”
“So you can turn around and sue me?” she teased. She inclined her head toward a stool, carrying the first aid kit under her arm. “Sit down.”
I plopped down on the stool, laying my hand face-up on my knee. Natasha flipped open the kit and balled up a wad of gauze, pressing it against my palm. I winced.
“Hold that,” she said. “Keep the pressure till it stops bleeding. Then we’ll get it disinfected.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Done this before?”
“Let’s just say there were growing pains when I decided to make power tools my hobby.”
I laughed, envisioning a young Natasha with bandages on every finger. When the bleeding stopped, she cleaned it up with some disinfectant wipes, then applied a fresh piece of gauze and wrapped it to keep everything in place. The sensation of her hands on my skin was addictive, as were her slow, delicate ministrations as she wove the fabric, her fingertips brushing over the back of my hand. It was almost worth getting injured. The space between us was suddenly charged, like we were like two magnets, opposite ends drawing close. I wanted to reach out and pull her to me.
Then my phone started buzzing. I grimaced. It was like the church all over again. I fished the phone out of my pocket with my good hand, ready to get truly annoyed if it was one of my parents pestering me again. But this time, Jimmy’s name flashed across the screen. I answered immediately.
“Jimmy, hey! I’ve been trying to reach…What’s wrong?” I asked, hearing him sob on the other end of the line.
Natasha frowned at me.
“Wait, hold on…just take a breath.” I got to my feet, looking for the keys to the truck. Where the hell had I put them? “Everything’s gonna be fine, okay? Whatever it is, it’s not the end of the world.”
That might have been the wrong thing to say because his sobs just got louder as he launched into a spiel that was mostly panicked noises and gurgles.
“I’m gonna be right there, okay?” I promised. “Just…wait for me at your dorm.”
I hung up.
“What is it?” Natasha asked.
“My brother,” I explained. “I guess his professor just posted the grade for his latest paper, and he did even worse than he thought. I know it sounds ridiculous?—”
“It’s not ridiculous,” she insisted. “Kids are under a lot of pressure in college.”
I nodded. “Jimmy carries more than anyone, it seems. Anyway, I have to go.” I lifted my hand. “Thanks for this.”
“Of course.”
I spotted the keys on a bench and reached for them, only to realize I could hardly bend my right hand thanks to the bandage. That was going to make driving the U-Haul from hell a nightmare, and I didn’t have time to sort out another vehicle. I needed to get to Jimmy as soon as possible. “Shit.”
“You okay?” Natasha asked.
“Yeah, fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Driving’s gonna be a problem.” I lifted my bandaged hand again. “Anyway, I’ll see you at work.”
“I could drive.”
“No, that’s?—”
“You’re injured,” she said. “You can’t even bend your hand.”
I wanted to argue, but we both knew she was right. Still, I hadn’t thought of putting her out like this. She’d clearly planned to spend the day working on her projects. Driving some demon-possessed piece of garbage all the way to Jersey and back to check on a kid she’d never even met couldn’t have been on her agenda.
She removed her safety glasses and unplugged her power tools. “You’re practically an invalid.”
I scowled at her. “I’m not that bad.”
“Just accept the help.”
“But are you really sure?” I asked. “Jimmy’s at Princeton. That’s at least an hour drive.”
She picked up the U-Haul keys. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.”