Chapter 5
Five
Reggie
I’ve been staring at this sewing machine for twenty minutes, and it’s staring right back at me like we’re in some kind of standoff.
The manual is spread across the kitchen table, written in what might as well be ancient Greek, and I’m starting to think this whole “seamstress studio” idea was a terrible mistake.
“Mama, what’s that noise?” Annalise asks, appearing in the doorway with her hair in pigtails that are already coming loose.
The sight of my baby girl brings a smile to my lips.
“That’s the sound of Mama losing her mind, baby.”
I give her a tickle and she giggles.
“Why?”
“Because this machine is possessed by demons.”
She laughs again and climbs on the chair next to me. “Can I help?”
My sweet baby girl.
“Do you know how to thread a sewing machine?”
“No.” She shakes her head, grinning.
I laugh again. “Then we’re in the same boat, sweetie.”
I’ve been working on setting up my studio for three days now, ever since we got settled in the cottage.
The spare room is perfect for it. Good light, enough space for a cutting table, and a window that looks out over the fields behind the house.
I just need to figure out how to make the damn equipment work.
This was supposed to be my fresh start. My way of making a living that doesn’t depend on anyone else.
I’ve been sewing since I was twelve, and I’m good at it.
Good enough that my friends here and then in San Francisco were always asking me to make them dresses or tailor stuff.
Good enough that I think I can make a living out of it.
If I can figure out how to thread this stupid machine, first…
“Maybe we should call Grandma,” Annalise suggests.
“Grandma doesn’t know how to use this machine either, baby. This is a fancy one,” I mumble, still trying to poke around the intricate system.
“What about that man? The one from the store?” Annalise asks.
“What man?” I turn my full attention to my daughter.
“The big one. Blayne. He fixes things.”
My heartbeat picks up at the mention of his name. “This isn’t the kind of thing he fixes, sweetheart,” I say in my best frown-up voice.
“How do you know?” she insists.
Good question. How do I know? Just because he’s a construction worker doesn’t mean he can’t thread a sewing machine. But the thought of Blayne’s huge hands on my sewing machine, his big fingers carefully threading the needle, makes me feel warm in places I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“Mama, you’re making a weird face.”
“It’s hot in here.”
“No, it’s not.”
Six-year-olds are too observant for their own damn good.
“How about we take a break and get some lunch?” I suggest, closing the manual before I’m tempted to throw it out the window.
“Can we have grilled cheese?”
“We can have whatever you want, my love.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table sharing grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup when there’s a knock at the front door. I’m not expecting anyone, and Mama usually just walks in, so I have no idea who it could be.
I open the door to find Blayne standing on my porch, holding a toolbox and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
He’s filling the entire doorframe, blocking the sun outside. Probably tall enough that he’ll need to duck to get through the door. Still wearing that damn hat. The one I’ve been imagining his fine self in with nothing else on…
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” My brain immediately goes blank. He’s wearing jeans and a gray Henley that shows off his toned arms, and when he takes off his cowboy hat, his hair looks all mussed. HOT. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just… I wanted to check on the cottage. Make sure everything’s working right.”
“Oh. Everything’s fine. Perfect, actually.”
“Good.” He shifts on the heels of his heavy work boots. “Mind if I take a look around? Just to be sure?”
I should send him on his way before I do something stupid like invite him to take a look around my… Oh God…
“Of course,” I hear myself blurt out. “Come in.”
He steps inside, and suddenly the cottage feels smaller. I’m hyperaware of every inch between us.
“Place looks good,” he says, glancing around the living room. “Kids settling in okay?”
“They are. Annalise still loves her room, Nia’s finding all kinds of hidden spots around the house for reading, and Jaylen’s well on his way to become one with the couch.”
He lets out a low chuckle that hits me straight between my thighs. “Sounds about right.”
“Blayne!” Annalise appears from the kitchen, her face lit up like it’s Christmas morning. “Did you come to see our house?”
“I came to make sure everything’s working right for you,” he replies, and again his deep voice goes softer when he talks to her, just like it did at the store.
“Everything’s working except Mama’s sewing machine.”
“Annalise,” I warn.
“What’s wrong with it?” Blayne asks, turning his blue gaze my way. Lord, this man’s eyes.
“Nothing’s wrong with it. I just can’t figure out how to thread it.”
“It’s really fancy,” Annalise adds helpfully. “And Mama’s been staring at it for hours.”
“Not hours,” I correct.
“A really long time,” she insists, nodding seriously like she has any notion of time.
Blayne’s full mouth twitches, and I notice the scruff covering his square jaw.
Get yourself together, Regina Mason. You’re standing in front of our child!
“You setting up a sewing machine?”
“Trying to, but this one’s more complicated than what I’m used to.”
“Can I take a look?”
“Oh, you don’t have to…”
“I don’t mind.”
Before I can protest further, Annalise is grabbing his huge hand in her tiny one and dragging him to the spare room. “It’s in here! Mama turned it into her sewing room, and it’s really pretty.”
I follow them, trying not to notice how Blayne’s hand completely engulfs my daughter’s tiny one, how patient he is with her chatter. Or how the way he moves makes me think he must be packing something pretty substantial in those jeans… I’m so going to hell for this.
The spare room does look pretty good, as my baby said. I’ve arranged everything the way I want it. Cutting table by the window, storage bins organized by color, the sewing machine set up in the corner where the natural light hits the best.
“Nice setup,” Blayne says, looking around. And I realize I love seeing him in my space. Watching him take in what I’ve put together so far. I’m so screwed… “You do this kind of work before?”
“As a hobby. I’m hoping to make it into something more.”
He nods and moves to the sewing machine, setting his toolbox on the floor. All tall, built, stupid handsome, and efficient in his movements. Pure manly grace. “What kind of machine is this?”
“Bernina. It was a gift from my…” I trail off, not wanting to mention Richard. “It was a gift.”
Blayne doesn’t push for details; he just examines the machine with careful attention.
“You got the manual?”
“Over there. I’ll get it.”
When I come back with the manual, he’s already figured out how to open the front panel. His hands are much bigger than mine, but he’s surprisingly agile with the delicate parts.
“Threading’s not too different from the industrial machines we use for canvas work,” he says, taking the manual from me. “Just more bells and whistles.”
“You use sewing machines?”
“Sometimes. Depends on the job.” He glances up at me, and our eyes meet for a second before he looks back at the machine. “You want to watch so you’ll know how to do it next time?”
“Please.”
He starts walking me through the process, his voice low and patient as he explains each step. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but I keep getting distracted by his hands. They’re big and calloused from work, but surprisingly nimble as they guide the thread through the various parts.
“Now you feed it through here,” he says, “and around this little hook…”
I lean closer to see what he’s doing, and suddenly I’m very aware of how close we are.
Close enough that I can smell him again, clean soap, aftershave, and an undercurrent that’s pure male pheromones.
God help me… I’m close enough to see the small scars on his knuckles, close enough that if I shifted just a little, my body would brush against his.
“You got it?” he asks.
“What?” I look up and realize he’s been explaining something while I was staring at his hands like a hormonal teenager.
“The thread guide. You need to make sure it goes under this little piece here.”
“Right. Under the little piece. Got it.”
He gives me a look like he knows exactly where my mind went, but he doesn’t say anything. Just continues with the demonstration until the machine is perfectly threaded.
“Want to test it out?” he asks, stepping back.
I sit down at the machine and press the foot pedal. It hums to life, stitching a perfect straight line across the scrap fabric I’ve been using for practice.
“It works!” Annalise cheers from the doorway, where she’s been watching the whole time.
“It does,” I say, smiling at my girl, before looking up at Blayne. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Wasn’t a big deal.”
But it was a big deal. To me, anyway. He didn’t have to come over here. He didn’t have to help me with something that has nothing to do with construction or maintenance. He did it because… why? Because he’s nice? Because he wanted to see me again?
“Mama, can you make me a dress now?” Annalise asks.
I laugh. “Maybe later, baby. I need to practice a little more first.”
“I want a purple one. With sparkles.” One-track mind, this one.
“We’ll see what we can do.” I wink at my daughter.
Blayne picks up his toolbox and walks to the door. I don’t want him to leave. I want him to stay and let me look at his hands some more while he explains things I probably already know how to do.
“I should check the rest of the house,” he says. “Make sure the plumbing’s holding up.”
“Of course.”
We spend the next twenty minutes going through the cottage while he checks faucets, tests outlets and it feels like he’s finding excuses to stick around… Annalise follows us everywhere, chattering and asking Blayne about a thousand questions.
“Do you have kids?” she asks while he’s examining the bathroom sink.
My eyes grow wide, and I almost admonish her, but I’m curious too. Wow, this is what I’ve been reduced to. Using my daughter’s insatiable curiosity to satisfy my need to know everything about this man.
“No,” he responds with a smile and another kind gaze aimed at my mini-terror.
“Why not?” she insists.
“Annalise!” This time I can’t let it slide.
“It’s okay,” Blayne chuckles. “I just never found the right woman, I guess.”
“Mama doesn’t have a husband anymore,” my baby declares.
I want to disappear through the floor. “Annalise Marie.”
“What? You don’t.”
“That’s not something we discuss with other people,” I tell her, trying to keep a straight face. But between my embarrassment and my amusement, it’s hard.
“But Blayne’s not other people. He’s our friend.”
Blayne’s trying very hard not to laugh, but I can see the twinkle in his eyes. Yeah, my girl’s highly entertaining… at my expense.
“Your mom’s right, sweetie. That’s private family business.”
“Oh. Okay.” She thinks about this for a second. “Can I tell you about my stuffed animals instead?”
“Sure.”
And just like that, she’s off and running, telling him about every single stuffed animal she owns while he listens like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard. My heart…
When we finally make it back to the living room, I realize I really don’t want him to go. I want to ask him to stay for dinner, or coffee, or just to sit on the porch and talk. But I don’t know how to do that without sounding desperate or needy or like I’m reading too much into his helpfulness.
“Everything looks good,” he says, setting his toolbox by the door. “If you have any problems, just call.”
“I will. And thank you again for the sewing machine. You saved my sanity.”
“Anytime.”
He heads toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle.
“You know, if you’re serious about the seamstress business, you might want to think about getting the word out. Small town like this, people like supporting local businesses.”
“I was thinking about that. Maybe putting up flyers or something.”
“Or you could set up a booth at the farmer’s market. Saturdays in the town square. Good way to meet people, show off your work.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Lot of the women around here would probably love to have someone local who can do alterations. Especially someone as good as you probably are.”
The confidence in his voice, like he just assumes I’m good at what I do, makes me feel warm all over.
“How do you know I’m good?”
“Because you wouldn’t be starting a business if you weren’t sure you could handle it.”
It’s such a simple statement, but it means more to me than he realizes. Richard used to question everything. My judgment, my abilities, my decisions. Having someone assume I know what I’m doing feels amazing.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
“For what?”
“For believing I can do this.”
Something changes in his expression, his eyes turning warmer, more intense. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Reggie. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me standing in my doorway watching his truck disappear down the road and wondering what the hell just happened to my carefully constructed walls.