Chapter 8 Rhett
Chapter eight
Rhett
Iwoke up hard.
Not the gentle morning kind—the frustrated, interrupted kind that reminded me exactly where Hog's mouth had been six hours ago before his ribs turned traitor. I lay there staring at my ceiling, replaying the weight of him on top of me and the rough scratch of his beard.
The shower didn't help.
By the time I made coffee, the sun was barely up, and I'd checked my phone twice to see if he'd texted. Nothing. Which was fine. We'd agreed to pause. He needed to rest. I wasn't some desperate—
My phone buzzed.
Hog: Morning. Ribs still hate me but less than yesterday. Ice helped.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I could invite him back to the apartment. Safe. Private. Pick up where we'd left off when his body allowed it.
But that wasn't what I wanted.
I wanted him in my actual life—not only the parts I'd cleaned up and made presentable. I wanted him in the messy, real spaces I'd built with my own hands.
Rhett: Come to the workshop. I'm working on something. Want to show you.
The dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Hog: Your workshop? Like where you actually work?
Rhett: That's the one
Hog: You sure? I'll probably break something. Bull—workshop
Rhett: You won't. Be here in an hour.
I sent the address and didn't overthink.
The workshop sat behind Murphy's Hardware on a street most tourists never found—corrugated metal roof, roll-up door that stuck in winter, windows so dusty they turned morning light amber.
I'd inherited the lease along with the business when Dad's mind started to go. Some days it felt like a gift. Most days, it felt like a cage I'd built around myself.
The cabinet I'd been restoring sat on my central workbench—1940s oak, beautiful bones, but some idiot had painted it institutional beige. I'd been stripping it for three days, revealing the grain beneath, each layer giving way inch by careful inch.
I pulled on my work gloves and picked up the plane, testing the blade angle against my thumb. Sharp enough. I set it to the wood and pushed.
This I understood. Grain and angle, pressure and patience. The wood told you what it needed if you bothered to listen.
Unlike every other overly complicated thing in my life.
I set the plane down long enough to hit play on the battered Bluetooth speaker on the shelf. The opening chords of Pete Townshend's "Rough Boys" rattled out, tinny but insistent, filling the corners of the workshop. Not The Who—the solo stuff Hog probably wouldn't even know.
This one was mine. The jagged guitar lines felt like sandpaper against my ribs, the lyrics scraping at something I couldn't quite name. I let it play low while I worked, the song haunting the space like a secret I'd never bothered to explain.
With a clatter of hinges, the side door swung open forty-eight minutes later.
Hog appeared wearing his Storm hoodie and ragged jeans. His beard still had pillow creases, and he carried two Tim Hortons cups like peace offerings.
"Coffee?" His voice was rough. Sleep-gravel or nerves, I couldn't tell. "I didn't know how you took it, so I got—" He glanced at the cups. "Actually, I forgot what I ordered. It's been a morning."
I set down the plane and stepped close to him, taking one of the cups. Our fingers brushed.
"Black's fine."
"Good, because I think that's what this is.
" He looked past me at the workshop, taking it in—the organized chaos of tools on pegboards, half-finished projects stacked against walls, and sawdust coating every horizontal surface.
"Holy hell. You actually keep your workshop cleaner than your apartment. "
"And what exactly does that mean?"
"It means—look around. Everything's got a home." Even the sawdust looks organized."
"The sawdust isn't organized. It's everywhere."
"Yeah, but it's your everywhere." He stepped fully inside, ducking slightly even though the ceiling was high enough. "Smells like—" He inhaled. "Christmas and motor oil had a baby."
Hog cocked his head toward the speaker. "Wait—that's not The Who, is it? I figured you'd be a classic-rock guy. Stadium anthems, not… whatever this is."
"Pete—solo," I said, running the plane along the oak.
Hog's brows lifted. "Didn't peg you for deep cuts."
I shrugged. "This one's mine."
I turned back to the workbench, picking up the plane again. "I'm restoring this cabinet. Client wants it for their kitchen."
"It's ugly."
"It's under six coats of bad behavior." I ran my hand over the stripped section, feeling the grain underneath. "But the bones are good. Someone covered them up."
He moved closer, coffee in one hand, the other reaching out to touch the raw wood. His fingers were careful—surprising for someone who spent half his life crashing into people at thirty miles an hour.
"How do you know where to stop? Like, when you're stripping it?"
"You feel it. The wood tells you." I set the plane to a fresh section and pushed, another curl peeling away. "See how the grain runs here? You follow that. Try to force it the wrong direction, and you'll tear it apart."
Hog leaned against the bench beside me. "Sexy Bob Vila over here, talking dirty about wood grain."
"Bob Vila never had to put up with you."
"Bob Vila would've been lucky to have me." He sipped his coffee, watching my hands. "You're great at this."
"It's just carpentry."
"It's not." His voice shifted to a rough, husky tone. "Your hands—the way you use them. Precise. Sure. Like you were made for this."
My grip faltered on the plane, pulse thudding hard enough to blur the grain beneath it. "Hog."
"What?" He stepped closer, heat rolling off him. "Can't help it. Watching you work—every stroke, every press—makes me think of other things you could do with those hands."
I swallowed, throat tight. "You can't say that when I'm holding something sharp."
"Maybe I like a little danger."
I forced myself to focus on the cabinet, running the plane along the next section. The rhythm helped—push, release, curl of wood, repeat. "My dad taught me. Said you can't force wood into shapes not meant for it. You work with the grain, not against it."
"Smart guy."
"Sometimes." I paused, blade hovering. "Took me years to figure out he wasn't only talking about carpentry."
The morning light slanted through the dusty windows, catching sawdust in the air between us. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbled past.
I reached out, brushing some stray sawdust from Hog's shoulder. My hand lingered, feeling the solid muscle beneath the hoodie.
"My dad's rule worked both ways." I touched Hog's jaw, thumb tracing the line of his beard. "You can't force wood into shapes it wasn't meant to hold. But you also can't pretend the grain isn't there. Can't sand it away or paint over it. It's part of the structure. That's what makes it strong."
He was barely breathing, watching me intently. The air between us crackled like sawdust catching fire.
When he finally moved, it was all at once—his calloused hand sliding up the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, gripping just tight enough to make my breath catch.
His mouth crashed against mine, hot and demanding. I tasted coffee and mint toothpaste. A sound escaped me, half-moan and half-plea, as I clutched his hoodie in both hands, fabric bunching between my fingers.
I tore my mouth away, gasping. "Hog—"
"Tell me to stop," he growled, voice like gravel, his massive hands now cradling my face with a tenderness that contradicted the wildness in his eyes. "But damn, Rhett, I don't want to stop."
"Don't you dare stop,"
He backed me against the workbench. Tools rattled. Something fell—screwdriver, maybe, clattering against concrete. Neither of us cared.
His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms scorching against my bare skin. I forgot how to think. He moved to my neck, his beard scraping the sensitive hollow of my throat, sending electricity down my spine where it made my cock swell.
"Fuck," I managed, fingers digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders, feeling him flex beneath my grip. "You're—"
"Too much?" He pulled back, broad chest heaving.
"Not enough." I twisted my fist into his hoodie and yanked him back against me, our bodies colliding with a force that knocked the air from my lungs.
He made a sound—half-laugh, half-groan—and kissed me harder. Wood shavings caught in his beard. Sawdust coated his hoodie where he pressed against the bench. My hands touched bare skin under the fabric.
When we pressed against each other, I felt his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Back room," I said against his mouth. "Now."
He blinked, pupils blown wide. "What?"
I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the smaller workroom in the back—away from the windows, the street, and anyone who might walk by and see Thunder Bay's contractor and the Storm's enforcer making out like teenagers.
Except.
I stopped at the doorway, looking at those street-facing windows. My truck was visible right outside. I hadn't bothered to close the roll-up door because I'd been too focused on cabinet restoration to care who saw.
Anyone could look in. Anyone could see us.
"Rhett?" Hog's voice was uncertain. "You okay?"
I turned back to him—this huge man who'd just told me he'd spent his whole life trying to be smaller, simpler, and easier to hold. He stood in my workshop surrounded by sawdust and half-finished projects, looking at me like I might ask him to leave.
"People can see your truck," he said quietly. "From the street. They'll know you're here with—" He gestured at himself. "With me."
"Good. Let them."
His eyes widened. "But your business—"
"My business will be fine. And if it's not?" I kissed him once, quick and fierce. "Then it's not. But I'm not hiding you. Not from Thunder Bay or from anyone."
His expression shifted—surprise melting into heat and hunger I could feel from three feet away. "You mean that."
"Yeah. I do."