12. Adair
12
ADAIR
A few days later, I’m curled up in my usual corner of the sofa with my makeshift sketchbook and a blanket tucked around me when Jack saunters into the room. “Making yourself at home?” he says with a chuckle, but he doesn’t sound snide about it.
“Uh-huh.”
“Good.” He actually smiles before asking, “You cold? Want me to start a fire?”
Could Jack really be in a good mood? Is this possible? Maybe I’m chilly because Hell just froze over. “That would be nice, if you don’t mind.”
“Nope.” He doesn’t say anything else as kneels on the hearth. Raking his hands through his hair, he twists it into a messy bun before he slides the fireplace screen out of the way.
Since his back is turned, I take advantage of the chance to ogle him. He grabs a couple of split logs and kindling from baskets next to the fireplace. Even the bigger pieces of wood look small in his hands. He’s wearing a green plaid flannel with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. I watch the muscles in his forearms before letting my eyes sweep over the planes of his back. The shirt is snug over his broad shoulders. I imagine coming up behind him and pulling his hair loose so I can run my fingers through it.
I’m glad I have the blanket over me, because I’m half-hard by the time I go back to my drawing. As warm, crackling heat starts to fill the room, I wiggle my toes in my socks in appreciation. The next time I look up, I see Jack watching me from the other side of the sofa.
“Can I see?” He points to my notepad. Since I’ve done about all I can on Paul’s design until he decides on some final details, I’m sketching the main characters of the book I just finished.
I squirm in embarrassment. “Ah, I’m just fucking around.”
Jack frowns. “You looked like you were really concentrating there.”
I sigh. “It’s just, like, shifter romance fanart.” In case he didn’t get the picture, I add, “It’s werewolves — you wouldn’t like it.”
Jack snickers. “Are you drawing them fucking or something?”
“No!” Not like I don’t do that sometimes, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“So can I see, then?”
I sigh and reluctantly flip it around to show him.
“Huh. That’s pretty good.”
I’m surprised. Jack doesn’t seem like the type of guy to dole out pretend compliments because he cares about people’s feelings, so hearing that makes me happy. “Why don’t you draw more often?” he asks.
“I used to a lot more,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know —guess I just fell out of the habit. Doing the project for Paul kind of kick-started it for me again. I forgot how much I enjoyed it.”
“There’s just something about making something, isn’t there?” he says, and I think of the intricately carved animals on the Adirondack chairs outside.
“Oh, definitely. But I don’t need to be spending money on sketchbooks. Paul gave me this one and, I mean, it’s just graph paper —nothing fancy.”
“Fair enough.” He shrugs. “Since you’re good at it, why don’t you set up a couple social media accounts to advertise your art? Maybe you could sell enough to at least cover the cost of your supplies.”
I dismiss him with a pfft and a wave of my hand. “I’m not good enough for anybody to actually pay me to do this shit.”
“I think you’re underestimating yourself, Bunny.” I squirm again, feeling awkward at Jack’s unexpected praise. He gets up and goes upstairs, so abruptly that I wonder if I pissed him off somehow. I’m relieved when he comes back a moment later.
“So, I got you something.” He thrusts a small, rectangular box at me. “I was going to give it to you later, but I just decided now would be better.”
“You got me a present?” I gape at him.
“It’s not a present,” he snaps, back to his usual surly demeanor. I sigh inwardly. Oh well, the mellow attitude was nice while it lasted.
I examine the box, turning it over in my hands. It looks like a present. There’s nothing on it to indicate what might be inside. I frown. “Why? It’s not my birthday.”
Jack snorts out a laugh. “I know it’s not your birthday.”
“How do you know when my birthday is? Did you look up my driver’s license somehow?”
He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bunny. You leave your wallet laying literally all over this house. You’re lucky I didn’t throw it into the recycling bin by mistake the other day when I was getting rid of the junk mail.”
“Sorry.”
“Fuck’s sake. Open it already,” Jack says testily. His impatience tickles me. I try to hide my smile as I open the box.
When I see what it is, my eyes get big. “Oh, wow!” I turn it over in my hand. “A digital pencil! This is awesome.” I look up at Jack. “But why? I mean, what made you…”
He looks uncomfortable, which is weirdly endearing. “I don’t know shit about this shit, but all the reviews said this was far and away the best one of these things out there. I noticed you were using fucking graph paper as a sketchpad. Figured this way you could draw as much as you want to without worrying about burning through supplies. And even though you say you’re not going to bother putting your artwork online, if you’re making it on your tablet to begin with, it’ll be easier when you change your mind about that.”
Eyes narrowed, I look at him. “Hey, what do you mean when I change my mind?”
Jack gives me a crooked grin. “Oh, I’m going to talk you into it.”
A couple of days later, I give the front door a nudge with my shoulder to get it unstuck. When I walk into the living room, I’m so surprised by what I see that I jerk to a stop.
Next to the fireplace is a stunning bookshelf. The shelves are live-edge walnut planks, oiled to bring out the deep brown hue of the wood, anchored by slender poles of white birch. I walk up to it and see that it’s filled with all of my special edition books that have been living in boxes for weeks.
I’m still blinking at the sight in shock when Jack saunters in from the kitchen. “Do you like it?”
There’s a lump in my throat too big to talk around, so when he reaches me, I just throw my arms around him as I blink back tears. “Uh-huh,” I say once I can speak again. “It’s gorgeous.”
I run my fingers over a shelf. The wood is as smooth as satin. “Did you make this?”
“Yeah. I was saving the walnut planks for something special but hadn’t figured out what yet. When I saw all your boxes of books and how much effort you put into taking care of them, I knew they deserved a good home.”
There are words on the tip of my tongue. I promise myself I won’t let them slip out. Not today. I can tell Jack isn’t ready for those words yet, but as I look at this beautiful bookshelf, I can feel the emotion he put into it: Making this piece of furniture with his own hands. Building it with the wood he had been saving for something special. Using his time and skill to create something just to make me smile — or cry happy tears, which, if he hasn’t yet figured out is a regular thing for me, he will soon enough.
“Thank you for making me feel like I belong here,” I tell him instead. “Never mind my books — you knew I needed a good home.”
Jack sort of laughs as he gives me a squeeze. “Maybe I did.”