Chapter Seven
Vera
We took Wyatt’s truck.
Probably for the best. I had taken my SUV on lumber runs before, but it hadn’t been pretty, and I didn’t want to risk the expensive wood getting dented.
I settled into the passenger seat, watching as Wyatt rested one hand on the top of the steering wheel.
His skin was a patchwork of cuts and old scars, not so different from my own when I used to work construction.
Skilled or not, we all got bumps, bruises, scrapes, and splinters.
We sat in companionable silence as we made the forty-five-minute drive to Springwood. The silence was nice, not awkward—just there. We made it to the hardware store, and Wyatt carefully backed his truck into a parking stall. It was a warm day, and I turned my face up to enjoy the sun.
Once we were in the store, he grabbed a wheely cart, and started moving through the aisles.
We spent a full hour looking at different wood, hinges, stains, and drawer pulls. I grabbed brushes and screws, too. By the time we were done, I was getting tired. “Hungry? I owe you dinner for all the help,” I asked as we carefully slid the planks into the bed of his truck.
“Can’t say no to that. I’m starving. What do you feel like?”
“Anything but diner food. I get enough of that at work.”
He laughed. “Understandable. Okay, how about sushi?”
We found a place nearby and grabbed a table by the window. Music played low in the background, and I could smell seaweed and something savory.
Once we had placed our order, we relaxed into the vinyl booth, checking our phones and taking in the buzz of the busy restaurant around us.
I wanted to get to know him better, even though, if this design worked, we really wouldn’t need to see each other much anymore.
The server arrived with our appetizers. A series of items each on its own plate. She put them between us, and we dug in.
He broke the ice before I thought of a topic. “I had fun talking to Ben the other day. He’s a great kid.”
“Thanks,” I said, tracing the rim of my teacup with a finger. Steam curled up, smelling faintly of jasmine. “I think so, too. Too smart for his own good. He’s got a mind for numbers.”
“I wish I could relate on the math front,” Wyatt said, leaning back in the vinyl booth. Sunlight slanted across the table, glinting off his watch. “There’s a reason I never became an architect or an engineer. But we have a lot in common, anyway. I was raised by a single mom, too.”
I sipped the green tea the server had left at our table. “What’s your mom like?”
His face softened. “The hardest-working person I know. My dad left before I was born, and she kept everything going.”
“That must have been rough on both of you.”
“It was,” he explained, his normally smiling face was somber. “She lost her sense of humor along the way, so I made it my job to bring it back. I would always try to make her laugh. Then, once I was old enough, I helped with chores and bills, and things got a bit easier.”
“So you’ve always been a hard-working guy.”
He nodded. “Mom made me what I am today.”
“And what is that?” I asked, tilting my head, trying to lighten up our serious conversation.
“Handy, handsome, and hilarious.”
I laughed, leaning a little closer. “Well, you’re not wrong.”
His cheeks went a little pink. “What has being a single parent made you?”
I huffed a breath while I thought about it.
The first thing that came to mind was tired, but that felt too heavy.
There were moments when that was how it felt, but it was balanced with other things.
Other moments when I knew that all the hard parts were worth it.
“I guess it made me stubborn and determined.”
“You must have been those things already if you worked construction. That job is not for the faint of heart.”
I laughed, thinking about the early mornings, the cold, the heat, the heavy work boots. “Some guys were pretty rough around the edges, but once I proved myself, it was a lot of work, but a lot of fun.”
“I worked it too, back before joining Wild Timber. Man, for a teenager, I learned a lot of things I probably shouldn’t have from the guys I worked with.”
I laughed. “Oh, I can only imagine. I remember it well.”
“My favorite insult they threw around was, ‘You must have been a C-section baby, the way you avoid labor.’”
I snorted. “I never heard that one. I always loved, ‘I do more by accident than you do on purpose.’”
He laughed and put his hands on his hips. “‘Go apologize to the tree for the oxygen you wasted.’”
“Or, ‘I’ve had footballs sharper than you.’” I added.
“Razing was definitely part of the job. I remember this new guy started once. Cocky as all hell. At the end of his first day, the foreman told him, ‘You’re about as useful as the share button on a porn site.’ His ego deflated after that,” Wyatt said, eyes sparkling.
“Rookies always got it the worst. ‘What are you, neither-handed?’”
“‘If I wanted someone to watch me work, I’d have become a stripper.’” I covered my mouth, trying not to snort.
“Or the safety advice. ‘Don’t stick your hand where you wouldn’t stick your dick.’”
The word dick from his lips made me clench my thighs together, but even so, we were cracking up.
The server approached, eyeing us as she placed a selection of sushi rolls on the table. The sesame smell made my mouth water.
Wyatt pointed at one of the rolls with his chopsticks. “That one is thick enough to need a special nightstand compartment.”
I choked on the bite of sashimi. “Warn a girl before you say things like that; I almost died.”
“Sorry, just saying.”
“Great, now I can’t eat a dynamite roll without thinking about dick.”
His eyes darkened and held mine for a heated moment. He slid the plate with the large roll across the table. “You better have it then.”
The heat between my thighs got more intense. “You want that on my mind?” I asked, spinning my chopsticks between my fingers, a teasing smile on my face.
“Depends who’s dick you’re thinking about.”
I felt my cheeks heat and could see Wyatt’s doing the same.
We didn’t break eye contact—not when I picked up a piece of the roll with my chopsticks, not when I slid it into my mouth.
Something that sounded like a low groan slipped between his lips.
The idea of throwing some cash down on the table, pulling him into the parking lot, and sliding into the back seat of his truck came to mind.
“How is everything so far?” the server asked, her voice breaking the spell between us. I hadn’t even seen her approach. “Uh, yes, great. Thank you.”
“Wonderful,” Wyatt added, clearing his throat.
She collected a few used plates, smiled politely, and walked away. The moment was broken—which was for the best. How many times did I have to remind myself that I didn’t want to complicate my hard-won peace? A few dick jokes shouldn’t be enough to throw my desire for stability out the window.
I took a long drink of tea, letting the warmth settle in my chest, and we moved on to safer topics.
Although the more time I spent with Wyatt, the more I realized that no topic was completely safe.