Chapter 5 #2
She is, but I swallow the retort.
“It’s fine. What’s up?” I ask.
She holds up a bowl covered with tinfoil. “The timer went off for the chili you had in the crockpot. I had a bowl, and it was delicious. Figured you might be hungry too since you’ve been in here all afternoon, so I brought you some.”
My annoyance at being interrupted eases at the gesture. She didn’t have to brave the cold to bring me dinner, but she did it anyway.
Because she’s not a jaded asshole with a chip on her shoulder.
“Thanks. You can put it over there.” I motion to the rolling cart against the wall.
She nods, placing the chili where I asked, but lingers in the room.
“Did you need something else?”
She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Honestly, the cabin is too quiet. I don’t have service, so I can’t work or stream a holiday playlist, and I can only do so much reading before growing restless.
I was hoping I could hang out with you while you work.
” She hesitates, shooting me a sidelong glance before adding, “I’ll be quiet, I promise. ”
I highly doubt that.
Noelle is curious by nature and admitted she doesn’t handle silence well.
Not to mention, I don’t usually let anyone in my workshop.
It’s where I come when the noise in my head is too loud, and I let my hands do the thinking.
There’s a peace that comes with transforming raw wood into a tangible object that calms me like nothing else.
I motion to the metal tool chest in the corner closest to me. “Take a seat.”
As Noelle passes my workbench, she pauses beside the rocking chair lying on its side. Her fingers trace the headrest where I’ve carved a fox curled in a bed of leaves.
“Shep, this is beautiful,” she says, almost reverently. “Every detail is perfect. Do you make furniture for a living?”
“No, it’s a hobby.” I set aside my sanding pad and wipe my hands on my jeans.
“Oh? What’s your job?”
The silence didn’t even last a minute.
“I own High Noon, Pine Haven’s only honky-tonk.”
Noelle scrunches her nose as she meets my gaze. “Is that some kind of bar?”
“Sort of.” I wipe my brow. “We’ve got alcohol, country dancing, live bands on the weekends, and some of the best damn barbecue in Arizona.”
She lets out a soft chuckle. “I don’t peg you for a social butterfly who’d willingly host a dancefloor full of strangers.”
“I’m not.” I shrug. “My friend Casey runs the place. I stop by once a week to order supplies and handle the accounts.”
It’s been that way for years. I spend my days on the mountain with the animals and in my shop, woodworking. I answer to no one, and solitude is my preferred companion. Yet with Noelle here, chatting constantly, it’s not nearly as bothersome as I figured it would be.
She perches on the tool chest, taking off her coat and folding her knees to her chest. My flannel hangs loose on her frame, and the top buttons are undone so one side slips from her shoulder, revealing her freckled skin.
Heat coils low in my belly, an animalistic urge to drag my mouth across the exposed flesh and mark her flashing through my mind.
I inhale sharply, forcing my mind on anything but trailing my tongue along her collarbone as she cries out my name—her constant chatter, the mess she made in the kitchen earlier, how she has a habit for showing up where she doesn’t belong.
“Please tell me you’ve got at least one fun hobby like axe-throwing or bowling,” she teases.
Grateful for the distraction, I collect my chili bowl and move to stand by the tool chest, deliberately keeping my distance to fend off further intrusive thoughts.
“Right, because being surrounded by amateurs tossing sharp objects and wearing shoes that smell like a locker room is super fun,” I say.
She laughs. “Alright, Sir Grumps-a-Lot, enlighten me—what counts as fun in your world?”
I shoot her a scowl. “In the summer, I run the local rodeo where Casey and I compete in the team roping event. It might not meet your entertainment standards, but I prefer activities that require strategy and patience.”
“Oh, is that a contest to see who can tie a rope the fastest? Or tug-of-war for cowboys?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, holding back a groan. Noelle couldn’t be more city if she tried.
“No, it’s a competition where two cowboys chase down a steer—that’s a young male cow,” I add as she tilts her head, a frown creasing her brow. “One of us catches the steer’s head, and the other gets the back legs. The fastest team wins.”
“Is that safe?” Her voice goes up an octave.
“Sure. We follow strict rules to ensure the animals aren’t harmed,” I assure her.
She sits up straight, giving me a nervous smile. “I mean, is it safe for you?”
I wasn’t expecting that response. I figured she’d be up in arms about the animals being used for sport, like Birdie is, and my safety would be an afterthought.
“Uh, yeah. The bull riders are the ones who have to worry about getting trampled. My biggest concern is getting my rope tangled.” This is where I should cut off the conversation and tell her I have to get back to work, but my curiosity overrides my aversion to small talk. “What do you do for work?”
“I host a podcast. It’s a blend of hype-girl energy with honest opinions that empower my audience when life gets messy,” she explains, her face flushing with excitement.
What the hell is “hype-girl energy” and why am I not surprised?
From how she describes it, what she does is an extension of her personality. Even after only knowing her for just over a day, I can tell she’s happiest when she spreads her sunny outlook on life, regardless of what people think—me included.
“Do you get paid, or is it more of a hobby?” Her smile slips, and only then do I register how rude my question sounded.
She edges closer to where I’m standing, giving me a patronizing pat on the arm. “My episodes pull in millions of views, and I’m consistently in the overall top hundred podcasts, so I’d say I’m doing alright.”
I’ve never listened to one, but that sounds impressive. Now that I think about it, I can see the appeal with Noelle. Her voice is soothing and animated, making even mundane details captivating when she speaks.
“I didn’t mean any offense,” I admit, spooning chili into my mouth to distract from my obvious misstep.
“None taken.” She grins. “Do you make a lot of rocking chairs?”
“Actually, that’s my first one.” I motion to it, propped up on the workbench. “Casey and his wife are having a baby.”
“That’s very generous,” she gushes. “My grandpa loved woodworking, too. Even though I never met him, I inherited the wooden Christmas village he made for my grandma. Every house is a music box that plays a Christmas song.” She pauses, wringing her hands in her lap as sadness laces her tone.
“When I moved this past summer, the transport crew dropped the crate holding the three cottages. Luckily, the shops and the church survived, but I was still devastated.”
I give her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry you lost them.”
She tips her head, giving me a small smile. “I appreciate it. I’ll replace them eventually—they just won’t have the same sentimental value as the old ones.”
Her story strikes a chord I didn’t think still existed. She makes me want to solve every one of her problems, no matter how small, even though I have no business being invested. In less than two days, she’s already twisting my head with her relentless optimism and fiery passion.
I don’t like how my hand on her shoulder sends a ripple of heat through me. I move it to my side, flexing my fingers to shake off the part of me already disappointed that she’ll be gone once the storm passes.