Chapter 8 Rhett #2
He kissed me like I'd just given him permission to want something. His hands tangled in my shirt, pulling me flush against him, and when I gripped his hips and turned us so his back hit the wall, he went willingly.
"Fuck," he breathed, head falling back. "Rhett—"
I kissed down his neck, tasting salt and that cedar smell that clung to him. His hands found my hair, gripping hard enough to sting, and the sound he made when I bit the hinge of his jaw went straight through me.
We were a mess—sawdust everywhere, his hoodie riding up, my hands shaking where they gripped his sides. I could feel him hard against my hip through too many layers, could hear his breathing coming faster, could taste the desperation on his tongue when he pulled my mouth back to his.
"We should—" I started.
"Yeah," he agreed, not letting go.
"In a minute."
"Yeah."
We stayed pressed against that wall, kissing hard, until my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled away reluctantly, breathing hard. "Damn."
"What?"
I checked the phone—client, asking about the cabinet timeline. "Work."
"Right. Work." He straightened, tried to smooth his hoodie, and only succeeded in spreading more sawdust. "I should—should I go?"
"No." I caught his wrist. "Stay. Just—give me five minutes to answer this."
His smile was crooked, still kiss-stunned. "Okay."
I typed out a quick response while he wandered back to the workbench, running his fingers over the stripped cabinet section. When I looked up, he was studying the grain pattern with the same careful attention he gave his knitting.
"It's stunning," he said quietly. "Under all that paint. You'd never know it was there unless someone took the time to find it."
I pocketed my phone and moved to stand beside him. "That's the job. Seeing what's underneath. Bringing it back."
He glanced at me sideways. "You thinking about expanding? Like, hiring someone?"
The question surprised me. "I've been considering it. There's enough work. And—" I paused, testing the words in my mouth. "I think I'm finally ready to build something that's mine. Not just what my dad left me."
"Yours?"
"Yeah." I touched the cabinet, feeling the grain under my palm. "For a long time, this place felt like an obligation. His business, his clients, and his reputation. Like I was just maintaining what he built instead of building anything myself."
"And now?"
"Now I'm starting to see it differently. Like—I can keep what was good about what he taught me and still make it my own." I looked at him. "Does that make sense?"
"Yeah. It does."
"You think I'd be a good teacher? If I hired an apprentice?"
"Are you serious?" He turned to face me. "You just spent twenty minutes explaining wood grain as if it were the most important thing in the world. You'd be a great teacher."
I exhaled. He saw me as a teacher. Not my father's son maintaining his legacy, but someone who could build something new. "Thanks."
"I mean it." He brushed sawdust from my shoulder. "You care about getting it right. About showing people how things work. That's what good teachers do."
I thought about him teaching eight kids to knit while his ribs screamed. About Jeremy asking for lessons, and about Mika hiding behind me until Hog crouched down with a tiny whale and made her feel safe.
"You'd know," I said.
"Yeah. I would." His thumb traced my collarbone through my shirt. "I've got a question."
"Shoot."
"What changed? Between last night and this morning?"
I looked at the workshop around us—tools my father taught me to use, projects I'd chosen to take on, and sawdust coating everything in a fine layer. "Last night I invited you to my apartment. Safe. Clean. The version of my life I don't mind people seeing."
"And this?"
"This is real. Messy. Mine." I met his eyes. "I wanted you to see it. Wanted you here."
He kissed me again, soft and lingering.
When we broke apart, he was smiling. "Your real is pretty great."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He glanced at the cabinet, then back at me. "Want help? I'm shit at woodworking, but I can hand you tools and look pretty."
I laughed—couldn't help it. "You're offering to be my workshop assistant?"
"I'm offering to spend more time watching you work with your hands while pretending to be useful. There's a difference."
"That's the worst job description I've ever heard."
"But you're considering it."
I was. With him standing there in my workshop with sawdust in his beard and kiss-bruised lips, I absolutely was.
"Fine. But if you break something expensive, you're buying me dinner."
"Deal." He grinned, reaching for the plane. "Now show me how this thing works before I accidentally shave off something important."
I spent the next hour teaching Hog how to plane wood.
"Okay, hands here." I positioned his grip on the handle, his right hand at the rear, left guiding the front. His hands dwarfed mine—knuckles scarred, calluses in different places than a carpenter's. "Feel the weight of it?"
"Yeah."
"Now—" I stepped behind him, bracketing his body with mine, my hands over his. "You're not trying to muscle it. Just steady pressure, let the blade do the work."
He tensed, every muscle in his back rigid against my chest.
"Relax," I said, low enough that my breath ruffled his hair. "I've got you."
He exhaled, shoulders dropping, and I guided his hands forward. The plane glided over the wood, causing a perfect curl to peel away.
"Holy shit. Did I do that?"
"You did that." I stepped back, giving him room. "Try it again. Same angle."
He did—too much pressure at first, the blade catching and stuttering. On the third stroke, he found the rhythm—the give and take between man and material. His whole body settled into it, with that same focused intensity he brought to his knitting.
"There you go." I watched his hands—careful despite their size, learning through touch instead of instruction. It was how he'd taught those kids to cast on, feeling their mistakes before correcting them. "You're a natural."
"Liar." He was grinning, already lining up another stroke.
Outside, Thunder Bay went about its business. Inside, surrounded by sawdust and the smell of fresh-cut pine, I chose visibility. Chose messy. Chose him.
My father's voice echoed: You can't force wood into shapes it wasn't meant to hold.
For the first time, I understood—it wasn't only about carpentry.
Hog made another pass with the plane, the curl peeling away clean. He looked over his shoulder at me, grinning, sawdust in his beard and wood shavings caught in his hoodie.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." I stepped close enough to brush sawdust from his shoulder. "You're doing great."