Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
florence
“Baaaa!”
A pair of wide-set, beady black eyes stare vacantly at me.
“Baa to you too,” I shout. “Where’s your master?”
I jump when another goat hops out from behind the cherry-red pickup. This one is smaller, all white, and rears its hoof over the dirt threateningly. It’s black and white counterpart just…stares. Like, a lot.
They’re cute, in a menacing kind of way, and a distraction. I’m here for answers.
Keeping my distance from the guard-goats, I skirt around the edge of the property and head toward the distinct sound of an axe splitting wood.
The cabin is a different experience in the light of day.
The rugged exterior has an air of tranquility to it, blending with the swaying branches of pine and spruce.
It’s a place you’d want to disappear to, hidden in the wilderness, away from the world.
Crafted with exceptional finesse, it’s no wonder he decided to make this his home.
Nature and Dexter Moore are one and the same.
Upon reflection, I should have called ahead. Upon further reflection, I’m glad I didn’t.
A bare-chested Dex, glistening with sweat, stands with his legs spread wide, dark jeans hanging low on his hips.
He raises an axe above his head, his tattoos rippling as he drives it down with a crack.
The splintering wood echoes through the trees.
If there was such a thing as Dad-bod lumberjack porn, this would be the highest viewed video.
He’s so engrossed in his task, he doesn’t notice me.
I take full advantage—ogling every movement, drinking in every grunt he expels, rough like bark scraping over my skin.
A flash of black and white zips past me, and the axe thuds to the ground as the goat headbutts Dex in the shin. “Fucking hell. Why are you such an insufferable dickhead?”
Giggling, I slap a hand over my mouth; the movement catches Dex’s attention.
“Florence?” He frowns at me before his gaze slides to his discarded T-shirt.
It’s then I recall why I’m here.
Stomping over, I stop a foot away, head tilted back. “Did you know?”
His throat bobs. “Know what…?”
“It was me applying for the job?”
A flicker of surprise in his normally neutral expression tells me he didn’t.
“Oh.”
He checks his watch. “Kelsey called earlier and said she’d send over the details of the candidate before I met them.” He checks his watch. “You’re early.”
His lighthearted joke eases some of the brewing self-doubt. “You really didn’t know?”
“My decision was based on what the resumes said. Yours stood out to me.” He shrugs, like there isn’t a huge elephant in the room.
My fingers twist, eyes cutting to the goats munching on a patch of grass. “Is this a good idea? I have zero experience in this field. You’d be better off hiring someone who knows what they’re doing and…”
There’s the matter of us having seen each other naked.
He exhales loudly. “You’re forgetting the part where I said your resume impressed me. Why are you underselling yourself?”
Dismissing his stern tone, I roll my eyes. “I don’t want you to feel obligated. No hard feelings if—”
“You haven’t accepted yet, right?” he interjects.
“Right…”
“Let me show you around, go over the job responsibilities, and then you can make a decision.” Dex smiles, his lip picking up on one side. “Mine’s made up, Little Sadler. The ball is in your court.”
Little Sadler. Not Trouble.
I can recall the day he coined that nickname, the memory clear as day. Coincidentally, it also happens to be the moment that fortified my longstanding crush, just a dewy-eyed seventeen-year-old.
Summer in Maine is my favorite season for multiple reasons.
Barbecues.
Fireflies.
Bonfires.
Sunbathing.
And most recently: Dexter Moore stepping out of the ocean.
I watch each water droplet with apt fascination as they glide down his torso and disappear into the waistband of his swim trunks. The number of tattoos adorning his body has doubled, and from behind my sunglasses, I can really appreciate the artwork.
My brothers are somewhere in the foreground, Patrick specifically, who won’t be grateful for me ogling his best friend.
Boo-hoo.
Not even the spicy books I read under the protection of my comforter compare to this.
It’s easy to blame my flamed cheeks on the hot summer sun, not the other feelings coursing through my body.
Dex isn’t built like the boys in my class. There isn’t anything boyish about him, never has been. Another fact: Dex will never, ever give me the time of day outside of being his best friend’s little sister.
I’m so enthralled, it’s too late to realize he’s headed right this way. Sprawled on my towel, belly down, I quickly smooth my blonde hair away from my face and check there isn’t any ketchup lingering on my face from my hot dog.
He spots me and raises his hand.
“We need another player for Capture the Flag. You in? You can be on my team.” My toes curl into the sand at his deep voice.
I bet he doesn’t kiss like the boys in my class. Gregory Winter doesn’t use enough tongue, and the aftertaste of his bologna sandwich really killed the mood.
“Florence?” Dex chuckles, grabbing my attention.
Oh my god, he’s been speaking to me and I’ve laid here like a trout, gaping at him.
“I’m down for anything. Literally.” I beam up at him then switch to something less desperate and more subdued. Men like a bit of mystery.
He frowns. “Are you okay? Your face is…”
I slap a hand over my cheek. “What? Is it a bug?”
“No. You were smiling and then stopped.” I smile again, and so does he. “Yeah, that’s the one I want to see, Little Sadler. So, you’ll play?”
He continues chatting away, oblivious to the thunderstorm of emotions cracking and flashing in my tummy.
Little Sadler.
A nickname. For me. From him.
It’s like my birthday and Christmas combined.
I nod along, agreeing to anything and everything he says as I stare dreamily into his eyes.
“Perfect. Thanks, Florence. Meet us by the water in ten.” He winks and walks away, shooting the shit with my brothers and hooking Patrick into a headlock.
Yep. This confirms it. I am 110 percent crushing on Dexter Moore, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I find a calm and collected Dex studying me when I return from the memory, his usual mask in place.
It’s clear the one-time only agreement is concrete, exactly what we agreed. He’s completely unaffected, unlike me.
But this is my chance.
When Kelsey sent his name and address, I thought my brothers or mom had something to do with this. I was ready to reject his pity hire, but now, my words are all jumbled.
He scrapes a hand down his bare stomach, catching on the dark hair covering his torso. He’s not too hairy, just enough to make my ovaries squeal in appreciation.
My eyes snap up. His lips press together, cheeks flushed, as he reaches for his t-shirt, tugging it over his head.
Party over.
I need to be mature about this. People sleep with their bosses all the time. Booth and Aly are a prime example.
Ready to accept his offer, I step forward, but the white goat chooses that moment to nudge my leg. Startled, I squeal.
It stiffens then collapses.
“Oh my god! I killed it!”
Dex snorts. “It’s fine, he do—”
“This isn’t funny. I’m a murderer.” I drop to my knees, tears obscuring my vision. “What do we do? CPR? Mouth-to-mouth?”
A warm hand cups my shoulder. “He’s not dead. He fainted.”
“What?” I gasp and face Dex, who is now very close, kneeling in the dirt behind me.
“They’re fainting goats—myotonic goats. The farm I bought them from didn’t know until they came home with me.”
“Fainting goats?”
He nods.
“Poor babies.” I stroke the kid’s wiry coat. After a few passes, its eyes ping open, and, as if nothing happened, it jumps up and trots away.
“See? He’s good. It happens if they’re excited or spooked.”
“I forgot you had goats.”
Chuckling, he raises his hands, rocking left and right. “Goats. Devil spawn. Same, same.”
“How old are they? How long have you had them? What are their names? Can I have one?” My questions spew out of me.
He ticks off each reply with a finger. “Two years old. Almost a year.” He points at the black and white one chewing on his pant leg.
“Vincent van Goat.” Then, the white one.
“His brother, Butt Head. And no, sorry. They’re pricks, but I’ve grown attached.
” A bashful smile pulls at his lips. “Lottie helped me name the latter.”
“Of course she did.” I imagine my niece having the time of her life playing with them.
His gaze narrows. “How did you get here?”
I divert my attention, response brusque. “Walked.”
“From your mom’s?”
“Yes. I like the alone time.” Dex’s place is on the outskirts of town, a little under four miles. It takes me roughly an hour to walk the full trek.
He exhales through his nose. “Florence, it’s not safe.”
“I can look out for myself,” I volley.
A thick eyebrow arches. “From a bear?”
Rolling my eyes, I pull out a can of bear spray. “I’m not stupid. Like you, I’ve lived in Maine my entire life.”
“I didn’t imply you were stupid or unprepared, but if you work for me, there’ll be no walking to work. I’ll pick you up and drop you off.”
Blades of grass tickle my bare legs. He smells like wood shavings, sweat, and outdoors, a heady combination.
“Isn’t accommodation included with the job?”
His jaw ticks, like he just remembered that perk. “Yes. In the A-frame. If you want it.”
The small building in question sits behind him, approximately one hundred yards from his house.
I nod, deciding how difficult it will be working for him but also being neighbors.
Noting my apprehension, he nudges my shoulder. “How about that tour?”
“A tour would be good. I didn’t get one last time…” My voice trails off.
Dex averts his gaze, and I internally curse, neither of us acknowledging my passive comment as we rise to stand.
He picks up half a dozen logs, back flexing as he ambles toward his workshop tucked between the two cabins.
We enter through a gap in the steel sliding door, journeying inside.
An earthy, slightly leathery scent lingers in the air.
Large, complex looking machines are dotted around the room, but it’s the huge mahogany table that holds my attention.
Its rough edges are filled with clear resin, polished and sparkling under the overhead lights.
It’s riveting to get a peek inside his sanctuary—a close second to seeing him in action, I’m sure.
Dex leans casually against a wooden worktop in the middle of the room, pride painting his face. As it should.
It’s easy to picture him in here, mastering the tools and wood with finesse, carving nature into grandeur art.
“This is…this is incredible.”
His shoulders hunch as he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Appreciate it.”
Shy Dex is cute.
“So, this is where the magic happens?” I stop in front of a large machine. “What’s this?”
He steps up next to me. “A grinder. It cuts, grinds, polishes, and sands a bunch of materials. This”—he taps at the center of the machine—“is an abrasive disc that runs at a high speed. You can switch it out depending on your needs: removing materials, shaping them, or creating a smooth finish.”
Listening to Dex, his passion shining bright, is enrapturing.
I slide to the next machine. “What about this?”
He folds his arms. “An automatic edge bander with a pre-milling unit.”
A low whistle blows past my lips. “Fancy.”
We go on like this, me pretending to know what he’s talking about while he describes each piece of equipment in detail.
In between each machine, he drops in the tasks he’d like his personal assistant to carry out.
Organizing his schedule. Making orders. Processing timesheets for his crew.
General administration. We finish in front of a wall of shiny hand tools, all polished and snug in their designated spots.
“Now that’s a screwdriver if I’ve ever seen one,” I declare proudly.
“Impressive. Maybe I should hire you as my apprentice.”
My chin juts out. “I’d hate to show you up.”
“Of course.” His head shakes with amusement. “Any questions?”
Inhaling deeply, I roll my shoulders. This is a conundrum no one could’ve predicted.
Dex hasn’t once pitied me; he’s just been there, quietly in the background, whether it’s a hand under the table or shoulder to lean on.
It’s difficult to put into words what those moments mean to me.
It would be foolish to think those tiny gestures were anything but friendly.
Try telling that to my pathetic little heart, though.
Budding feelings aside, he’s offering me the slice of freedom I’ve been yearning for, a chance to prove to my family I’m not flaky and irresponsible. If I’m going to fail, I’d rather do it with this man, the one who’s handled me so gently the past few months.
If I don’t jump now, the opportunity might pass me by.
“When can I start?”