Chapter 11
Levi
She went quiet. I didn’t know much about Claire Wells, but she certainly wasn’t shy about making her thoughts known.
I’d overshared her into silence. She had seemed so genuinely interested in my work, but I had a habit of always going just a little too far and not realizing it until the person was already gone.
Then again, her silence could be because she was currently caged in by my arms. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. As was beginning to be the pattern around her. I was so caught up in the moment that I touched her without thinking. Now she stood in my embrace like a lover, her sweet floral scent rattling my peanut-sized brain. She was soft and warm and pliant.
All I’d touched for so long was unforgiving, weathered pieces of wood—she’d have a field day with that one. When was the last time I’d even touched a woman, let alone one who seemed to infiltrate my brain with her nosy questioning, deep dimples, and wide smile that made my brain blank out? Had I remembered to breathe? My lungs ached. If I inhaled her now, the memory of her would be latched to this exact moment, and I’d be cursed to relive this yearning every time I smelled anything close to this combination of sweet florals, wood shavings, and whatever made her scent hers.
It wasn’t only my obvious physical attraction to her. Loathe as I was to admit it, I missed conversation. Was it a conversation? Or had I verbally bombarded her? I quickly replayed the past hour, and it had been rich and fulfilling conversation. Her questions were specific and genuine. There was no reason to fake caring about any of this when she got nothing in return but information. Aside from brief interactions in town and Pace’s check-ins, I was more isolated than I thought.
Wasn’t that what I wanted?
“Anyway, that’s what drew me to this old stump.” I dropped her arm and stepped back.
“It’s incredible,” she said, color high in her cheeks, eyes glancing around and not at me.
Was she trying to be polite to protect my feelings? Did it matter if she hated it? I was by all accounts successful enough to sell every piece every year, so what did her approval matter … yet.
“You sell them in town? That’s how you make your money?” She stopped, and her brows pinched. “Sorry, that might be an incredibly invasive question. Sometimes, I forget to filter thoughts before they leave my mouth. As you have most likely noticed.” The blush grew darker.
I swallowed, knowing exactly how that felt.
“It’s fine.” I grabbed a chisel. I wasn’t even sure which one I grabbed, but I needed something that wasn’t her body to occupy my hands. Maybe if I looked like I was going to get to work, she’d leave me to my solitude. That was what I wanted.
“I do okay in tourist season. Usually, it’s enough to last me through the year. Sometimes, I help with odd jobs around town. My friend Pace knows everybody and is constantly offering my help.”
“I see. Well, I’m not surprised. These are fantastic.” She turned around the space slowly again, eyes tracking everywhere. My gaze roamed over her body, lingering on the way her hips and legs filled out her soft pants and how the slope of her neck smoothed gently into her shoulder. I wondered how easy it would be to replicate that shape, how it would feel to run my hand over it, like testing the final sanding of any imperfections. She had none that I could see.
“Thanks,” I grumbled, accepting the compliment that eventually sank in even though it made my skin itchy.
I never felt like I deserved praise for something that worked through me, like thanking a keyboard for an author’s work.
We stood facing each other. Her top two teeth nibbled on that damn bottom lip again. I wished she wouldn’t do that.
I’d been about to not so subtly shoo her away when her gaze flicked over my shoulder. “What’s this one?” She moved quickly toward it.
I knew without looking that she found the one unfinished piece covered in a sheet. And it probably never would be completed. “Not that one. It’s not?—”
She gasped as she pulled the sheet away. “Wow.” She sucked in a breath.
“That one was hidden for a reason,” I snapped, and she winced. I wanted to cover it back up, but if I snatched the sheet from her fingers now, I would scare her. Growing unease coiled my muscles, tightening my shoulders and neck. This was too close to the thing we didn’t talk or think about.
“Sorry. I can be a little bit?—”
“Nosy.”
“Inquisitive.” She sniffed. “It’s one of my many charms.”
“That right? Who told you that?” My fists balled to keep from reaching for the sheet.
She made a soft sound of never mind. “Why is this covered?”
I took a sharp inhale in and out, anger growing. I shouldn’t have let her in here. I kept my back to them both. I didn’t need to see the work to remember the pain that it represented. I closed my eyes. I saw her in my mind’s eyes, the agony, the sadness, the disbelief of a life ending too soon.
“It didn’t come out right. It’s trash,” I lied.
“It’s breathtaking,” she said quietly. “It’s so different from the other ones.”
I ground my jaw. She needed to leave. This was too much.
Her feet shuffled on the dirty floor as she presumably took it in at different angles. “It’s making me feel … lonely.” She made a soft noise of thinking. I fought to keep from watching her watching my art. “But in a sort of universal, connected way. This is the sadness that we all feel. Like how the same patterns repeat in nature. Like the swirl of the inside of a shell will sometimes mirror the swirl of an entire solar system. We are all creatures that grieve and hurt. Nothing is special about our pain, but also in that sadness, we’re all connected and made of the same things.”
My heart hammered against my chest. She was poetic for a journalist. It was what I could never convey in trying to explain my work. This stranger understood things about myself that I was still not close to processing.
“It’s a universal loss but still feels so personal,” she finished reverently. “This is exactly what I want to do in my articles, but it never—” She stepped closer, but whatever she’d been about to say, she stopped herself.
I clenched my jaw. Having her here was a mistake. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I needed her to leave, but I was the numbnuts who had invited her.
“You could absolutely sell this,” she said. “God, if I were loaded, I would buy it, but I couldn’t afford what this is worth. It’s worth a lot is what I’m saying.”
“It’s not for sale,” I said sharply, ending the discussion.
“I know you said you don’t think it’s done, but I think that’s what makes it so honest?—”
“Can you just drop it, Claire?” My words slashed through the air, cutting any connection we’d been sharing .
The beat of silence that followed rang like a gong in my head.
“Hey,” she said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, and she lowered it. “I’m sorry. I had no right. I do this … I go too far …” Her shoes shuffled on the dusty floor.
“You didn’t know.”
“I never seem to,” she mumbled. “I’m going to go.” She lightened her tone, and if I wasn’t still glaring at the pile of sawdust on the floor, I would probably find her wide smile locked in place. “I appreciate you showing me around.”
I grunted something of a goodbye and flicked the air compressor to life so I could blow off the dirt. The machine was loud enough that I couldn’t hear her leave.
Now that I was alone, I was too pissed off to wallow like I wanted to. I was pissed off at myself for getting mad at her. I was mad that she had to be so damn … so incredible. With those eyes and those lips. When she looked at me. And her curiosity was just so …
That young lady was showing interest, and that’s how you act? You make art but get so mad when people like it …
“Stop making me feel bad!” I kicked the stump with my work boot, and it hardly moved. The steel tips protected me from breaking a toe.
But what did I expect? Whatever bullshit was happening inside was just that. Bullshit. Nothing to get all worked up about. These feelings would pass. Maybe I did need to get out more. The first woman to show any interest in my art and I lose my shit.
“Get your act together, man,” I said, shoulders at my ears as I gripped the side of my workbench to flex my throbbing foot.
After several minutes of breathing and collecting myself, I decided to apologize to Claire. Like the grown man I was under all the aforementioned bullshit. I had been all over the place since I met her, and it had to be getting annoying. After I apologized, that would be it. No more finding excuses to linger in her presence. No more thinking about her at all. I could compartmentalize and shut things down. That was a strength of mine.
I got three feet outside the shed and almost smacked into her.
“Hey.” Her brows shot up.
“Hi.” I relaxed my “resting jerk face,” as Pace referred to it.
She’d changed her clothes, now sporting a thin windbreaker and a small bag strapped to her side. Her long cargo pants and hiking boots made my next question moot.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“For a walk.” She smoothed her thick hair, now pulled back into a ponytail. “I just wanted to let you know. Not that you would worry, but you know, they always say to tell at least one person when you go hiking solo. And as you are the only person, that makes you the winner.” She wiggled her fingers like jazz hands. “Huzzah.” Then she dropped them to twist behind her back, schooling her features.
I made a sound of acknowledgment, and she fiddled with her sleeves. I was supposed to apologize, but this weird sensation of trepidation or exhilaration made my adrenaline go haywire. It happened when we were inside the workshop, too. Maybe I was getting sick .
“Also, I just wanted to apologize again for pushing my way into your workshop. And then asking all the questions.” She winced. “And then pushing about selling that one piece,” she said.
I was the one who meant to apologize. I was the one acting like a grumpy ass because some things were still too painful for me to process. Her gaze moved over my clenched jaw and balled fists, and her frown grew.
“You were very clear when you made the listing for Little Cabin that you didn’t want to have any sort of interactions,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her chest. “And I love rules and lists and clear expectations. I should have respected that. I promise I will print and laminate the list of rules and pin them above the bed so I see them when I first wake up.” She chuckled anxiously as she ran her fingers through her ponytail. “I will leave you be. I’m almost done with my work, so I need to focus on that anyway. I will probably go to town for the internet. So I won’t bother you, is what I’m saying.”
My intentions to apologize got lodged in my throat. She was right. This was what I wanted. I continued to blur the lines of the boundaries. “Okay.” I was furious with myself but respected both of our lives by sticking to the plan. “Thank you,” I added.
She started to step backward, pursing her mouth to the side with a series of quick nods. “Okay, then. I’ll just be—” She thumbed to the road.
“Where are you going?” I asked. “I should know. For safety.”
“Just up to the Cozy Creek Short trailhead,” she said.
That was a beginner-level trail that was family friendly. Other people were likely to be hiking there at this time of day as well. She made it clear she was used to hikes, so I had to trust that she knew what she was doing.
“There is supposed to be a storm tonight,” I said.
Well, I tried.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be gone an hour, tops. Remember, this ain’t my first rodeo.” She slid on a corny country accent.
“Do you have your phone?” I focused on the questions. Her nervous weirdness made her exceptionally adorable, and I was not equipped to handle that.
“I do, but you know.” She pointed at the little bag with a shrug. Unless she hiked pretty high up, she wouldn’t be in sightline of any towers.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I didn’t want her to leave. This was exactly the problem. Maybe I needed a laminated copy of the rules too.
Instead, I cleared my throat as the awkwardness settled between us.
“Okay. See ya,” she said, waving as she spun on her heels and walked away.
I opened my mouth, hand reaching for her and then pulling back. I shut my mouth tight.
And it was fine. Who cared if I wasn’t friendly? This wasn’t summer camp, and we weren’t weaving baskets together.
I stomped back into the shed, refusing to look back at the guesthouse—what had she called it? Little Cabin? Ridiculous … but feeling the judgment rolling off it, nonetheless .
I got back to work and lost myself in prepping the tree stump. I enjoyed the physicality of woodworking and loved how it shut my brain down and helped me get through hours of the days that sometimes felt endless. When I looked up again, two hours had passed. There. Two hours and I’d hardly even thought about her.
I went to the window to make sure she was back at Little Cabin. The desk lamp was not on, and the curtains were still open. No signs of life. I let out a long sigh.
“Ripley,” I said loudly. She jumped up out of her covers to stretch, her tiny butt arching into the air. “Oh, you need to go out? Whatever you do, don’t go down to the guesthouse.”
Her tail started to wag, and she sprinted down toward the guesthouse. I followed right behind, assuring myself Claire had come back and I’d missed her. A whipping wind cut through the trees, and dark clouds to the east raced this way at a noticeable clip.
Without having an excuse ready, I jogged up the steps to knock on the door. My heart beat out of control despite my best efforts to calm it. The house looked even more lifeless and cold this close-up. I stepped back and off the porch. Waiting.
Nothing.
She was smart. She had lived here in Colorado for a while, so she knew how fast the storms moved in.
She wouldn’t appreciate some stranger chasing her down like some nutjob.
“Goddammit. I’m going to regret this.”
I got Ripley in the truck and went to find her.