Chapter 14
BLAKE
The smell hits me first when I wake up—sawdust and linseed oil, shit that's better than coffee for getting my brain working. I'm on the workshop couch again, neck stiff as hell, still wearing yesterday's jeans with wood shavings stuck to my shirt.
Fucking brilliant way to start the day.
The Victorian mantelpiece I've been fighting with all week glares back at me from across the room, half its carved roses stripped down to bare wood. The client from Seattle wants it "museum quality" by Friday. Yeah, well. She can want all she likes.
I've seen what real loss looks like. Missing a deadline isn't the end of the world. No fucking way I'm letting that piece out of here until it's perfect. Gramps always said the wood takes time to reveal itself, and that you had to be patient. As a kid that was hard.
Now, time is my fucking lifeline.
I grab a Coke from the mini fridge and crack it open. Breakfast sorted. The workshop's quiet except for the dehumidifier humming and my phone buzzing like an angry wasp on the workbench. The client again: Any updates on timeline? My designer is asking.
I look at the message, then flip the phone face-down. Lady wants perfection, she gets perfection. On my schedule, not hers.
This is what makes sense to me. Taking something broken and putting it back the way it was meant to be. Not better. Just right.
And that can't be rushed.
My phone buzzes again. Different number this time, probably another client wanting to know when their precious antique will be ready. I don't bother checking.
The coffeemaker's probably done its thing by now.
Reid's probably stumbling out of bed. Early mornings are a habit that didn't stick with Reid.
Mornings aren't a problem for me. Neither are late nights.
Sleep is the fucking problem. But the more tired I am, the easier it is to fall asleep, the easier it is to keep the nightmares at bay.
I pull on my boots and head outside, workshop door slamming behind me.
It's a good walk to the house—hundred feet of gravel and grass that gives me time to finish waking up, and work the rest of the kinks out of my back.
I should move my bed into the shop. It would be a fuck of a lot better for me.
But it would probably send Reid over the edge.
The kitchen smells like actual food when I walk in. Reid's at the stove with his phone in his hand, reading something that's got him grinning like a damn fool. I don't even have to guess what's got him smiling.
Laine. Laine of the blonde hair and the sunny smile. She's the reason he's so happy lately. Also the reason he's actually awake at this time of morning.
"Morning," I grunt, making a beeline for the coffee pot.
"There he is." Reid doesn't look up from his phone, but I can hear the grin in his voice.
"Sleep well in your luxury accommodations?
" He flips a spatula in his hand—nervous energy, always moving.
There's a bite in his words, a frustration that's old and simmering.
But he's not going to push it. Not this early.
"Like a rock." I pour coffee that's strong enough to strip paint, just the way I like it. "You're up early."
"Laine just got off her shift. She's complaining about some asshole attending." Reid glances up from his phone, and there it is—that stupid grin that's been plastered on his face for weeks now. "Says thanks for letting her use the golf clubs yesterday, by the way."
"She can keep 'em. I don't use the damn things."
"You sure? They're nice clubs."
"Positive." I lean against the counter, letting the coffee work its magic. They are nice clubs. A birthday present from Jared's dad. Reid's dad. But I only used them a few times. I felt like a third fucking wheel every time he invited me to golf with them. "How was it? The golf thing."
Reid's whole face changes when he talks about her. Goes soft around the edges in a way I haven't seen before. That look on his face has my guts twisting.
"It was perfect, man." Reid's practically bouncing, abandoning whatever he was cooking to lean against the counter facing me.
"She's got this competitive streak, turns out.
And she doesn't take any bullshit, which is good because the guys were giving her plenty.
" He's gesturing with the spatula now, punctuating his words. "She fits, you know?"
Yeah. I can see that. She's not like any woman he's ever been with. She's not like any woman I've met either.
"Good for you," I say, trying to mean it. I want him happy, I really do. I just didn't expect to feel this way about it.
"Yeah." Reid sits down across from me, still smiling. "She is."
Something in his voice makes me look up. There's weight there, something more than just talking about a good time.
Fuck. "You getting serious about her?"
Reid pauses, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Yeah, I think so." He studies my face. "That gonna be a problem?"
"Why would it be a problem?"
"Because if this goes where I think it's going, things might change around here. She might want to stay over more, spend time here. Eventually..." He shrugs, but his leg's bouncing under the table. Nervous. "Hell, I don't know. Maybe she moves in. But this is your home too."
Your home. It's a nice thought. But I don't think it's true. Yeah, I put money in. But I don't have a home. Haven't for a long time. Home means safety and peace, and there's no more peace for me.
"Reid, I want you to be happy. If she makes you happy, then fuck yeah, go for it." I set down my cup. "Besides, might not matter much anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"Got some calls yesterday. Three new projects, all big money. Brownstone in Boston needs all its molding restored. Victorian mansion in Savannah with water damage. Some rich prick in Seattle bought a door from France at auction, wants it 'made magnificent.'"
Reid's eyebrows go up. "Blake, that's—holy shit, man. That's huge."
"Big money, long timeline. Yeah."
"A brownstone in Boston? A mansion in Savannah?" He's grinning now, genuinely excited for me. That's Reid—can't help but be happy for other people, even when his own life is in flux. "Your business is really taking off."
"Yeah." I guess I should be more excited, but it's just a way to pass the time. A way to put food on the table. And if I'm honest with myself, working is the only thing worth waking up for.
Reid nods, but something flickers across his face. Relief, maybe. Or concern that I'm taking on too much. He doesn't need to worry about that. Work is simple. Work makes sense. Work doesn't ask me to feel things or deal with shit or be anything other than good with my hands.
"Actually," Reid says, setting down his mug, "I was hoping to have her over more often. Maybe not just for dinner here and there."
I take another sip of coffee, buying time. "Yeah? Like what, movie nights?"
"Maybe. Or just..." He shrugs, but there's something careful in his voice. "Normal stuff. Having her around. I didn't want to assume anything, though. This is your space too."
Right. My space. The workshop where I sleep on a busted couch because the bed in my actual room feels too much like a coffin. The kitchen where I grab coffee and run. Yeah, it's my space the way a rest stop is home.
"Reid, just give me a heads up when she's coming over. I'll make myself scarce."
"No." He says it fast, sharp enough that I look up. "That's not what I want."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean hiding in your workshop every time she comes over isn't a solution." Reid leans forward. "She's going to want to know you. Spend time with you. You're my best friend, Blake. My family."
My chest tightens. This is exactly what I was afraid of. "Look, I'm not really the dinner party type these days."
"Fuck dinner parties, asshole. Just... be around. Exist in the same space without running away."
I want to tell him that's not how this works.
That I'm not good company anymore, haven't been for five years.
That the last thing someone like Laine needs is my particular brand of broken hanging around, dragging down the mood.
She's all sunshine and hope and fixing people.
I'm sawdust and insomnia and the kind of grief that doesn't get better.
"She seems nice," I say instead. Nice isn't the word for it. She's pure light. Too bright for my fucking eyes.
"She is nice. She's also not fragile. And she's not going anywhere." Reid's voice has an edge now. "I'm not asking you to be someone you're not. I'm just asking you not to disappear every time she shows up."
The thing is, I can see what he's not saying. That he's falling for her hard. That this isn't some casual thing that'll burn out in a month. And if I treat her like a stranger, it's going to create problems between them.
Fuck.
"Fine," I say. "I'll stick around. Be social."
"You don't have to be social. Just... present."
Present. Like it's that simple. Like I can just flip a switch and be the kind of person who makes small talk and asks about someone's day without wanting to crawl out of my skin.
But Reid's looking at me with that expression he gets when something really matters to him. The same look he had when he asked me to move in here, when he said we were all the family either of us has. The look that means he's not asking for much, but what he is asking for means everything.
And the truth is, if Laine makes him this happy, if she's the reason he's been sleeping better and smiling more, then I owe it to him to try. Even if the idea of letting another person into our carefully constructed life makes my skin crawl.
"Alright," I say. "I'll be around. Just don't expect me to be charming."
Reid grins. "Wouldn't want you to strain anything."
"Good." I drain my coffee and stand up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a mantelpiece that's not going to restore itself."
"Blake."
I turn back.
"Thanks."
"No problem, man."
I head back to the workshop, coffee in hand, and I can already hear Reid's phone buzzing again. Another text from her. He's probably already typing back, thumbs flying, that dumb smile back on his face.
It's not that I don't want Reid to be happy. I do. More than anything.
But things are going to change. I can feel it. And change has never been kind to me.
Reid's moving forward, building something real. And I'm still sleeping on a couch in my workshop.
He deserves this. He deserves her.
I just don't know where that leaves me.