Chapter 22
LAINE
On a Saturday.
It's criminal.
I groan into my pillow, hoping I imagined it. But no—it buzzes again. Long, insistent blasts that mean either the building is on fire or Reid Garrison is downstairs. Is it weird that I know it's him by the way he rings the buzzer?
I drag myself out of bed, pull on my robe, and hit the intercom. "If the world isn't ending, you're a dead man."
"Good morning, Sunshine!" Reid's voice crackles through the speaker, way too cheerful for this hour. "Put on your work boots. We're going on an adventure."
"Reid. I'm sleeping. It's Saturday." Most weekends I would just be getting off shift at 7:00 AM. I had a whole plan of doing nothing this morning. Darn it, I was looking forward to it.
"Tony's out. Food poisoning. Or the flu. Either way, he's been hugging his toilet since midnight, and Blake has a three-hundred-pound slab of walnut that needs to get to Sunriver by noon. He needs an extra set of hands." A pause. "You have hands, Laine."
This man. I lean my forehead against the intercom. "You want me to haul furniture on my day off."
"It's not furniture, it's art. Custom piece. Very fancy. And I have coffee—the good stuff, not that break room swill. And donuts. Maple bars."
I close my eyes. I'm already awake. That's the annoying part. And honestly? The idea of spending the day with Reid, even if it means manual labor, sounds better than my actual plans, which were laundry and maybe reorganizing my closet for the third time this month.
"Give me twenty minutes."
"You have ten! Burning daylight!"
I take fifteen. Sue me.
I dig out my old hiking boots, find a pair of jeans that already have paint stains on them, and throw on a flannel shirt. I look like I'm about to split firewood or star in a lumberjack calendar. Good enough.
Blake's truck is idling at the curb when I step outside.
The morning air is crisp, that Oregon chill that bites through your clothes until the sun gets high enough to burn it off.
The truck is a massive black pickup, one of those heavy-duty ones that looks like it could tow a house.
Attached to the truck is a plain white trailer.
That must be the thing Blake's installing.
It's spotless for a work vehicle—no mud on the wheel wells, no dents.
Blake keeps it clean the way he keeps everything. Precise.
Stenciled on the door in simple block letters: MOORE CUSTOM WOODWORKS.
Reid hops out of the passenger side, bouncing on his heels like a kid on a field trip. He's wearing a faded t-shirt that says Will Work For Tacos, and he's got a travel mug extended like a peace offering, steam curling off the top.
"You look very outdoorsy," he says grinning, handing me the coffee.
The heat seeps into my fingers. And then he smiles at me like I'm the best thing he's seen all week and I forget to be mad about the early wake up. He leans in and kisses me. Sugar glaze and too much caffeine. I saw him two days ago but it feels like weeks.
"Seriously, thank you for this," he says, still close enough that his breath lands warm on my face.
"There's going to be some help onsite, but Blake was going to try to do it with just the two of us, and his shoulder's been giving him trouble.
I'd rather not watch him blow it out trying to be a hero. "
Such a sweet man. "I assume Blake is thrilled about me tagging along?"
I glance at the driver's side. The windows are tinted, but I swear the mood is radiating through the glass like its own weather system.
What made him like that? Is it just losing Jared?
I know he was in a different unit from Reid.
I can't even imagine what he saw. What he did.
So I'm not going to be the one who judges him too harshly. Not today, anyway.
But seriously, he's kind of a downer most of the time. But Reid loves him, and it's obvious that Blake feels the same way about Reid. So I'm going to keep trying. Because what I have with Reid is worth it.
I nod my head to the truck and Reid makes a face. "He's... focused. He gets like this on install days. The piece has been in his workshop for three months. It's a big deal." He shrugs. "Just ignore the growling. He doesn't bite."
"Mostly?"
"Mostly." He grins and opens the front door. "I'll take the back seat. You get shotgun—better view, more legroom."
"Reid, I can sit in the back. Your legs are way longer than mine."
"Nope. You're the guest of honor. Get in."
I climb up into the cab, laughing when I get a cheeky pat on the butt. I turn back to glare at him, and he stares up at the sky, whistling. Such a goof.
It's warm inside, and it smells like leather and sawdust and old coffee—Blake's world in three scents. The seats are worn but clean, and there's a travel thermos in the cupholder that's seen better days.
Blake is behind the wheel, staring straight ahead. He's wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His hands are at ten and two, and he's got that coiled stillness thing going on again.
"Morning," I say, pulling on my seatbelt.
Blake glances over. His eyes move from my boots to my jeans to my face—quick, assessing. Probably trying to figure out if I'm going to be dead weight.
"You bring gloves?" he asks. His voice is low and rough, like he hasn't talked to anyone yet today.
"In my bag."
"Good." He nods once. "Don't touch any of the finished surfaces with bare hands. Oils from your skin will cloud the wax."
"Got it."
He puts the truck in gear, then pauses. Looks at me again.
"Thanks for coming," he says. It sounds like it costs him to say it. "Tony puking his guts out put me in a bind."
"How rude of him, huh?"
"Yep." The corner of his lip twitches in an almost smile. He pulls the truck into traffic, smooth and easy, all capable broody man behind the wheel.
"Okay!" Reid leans forward between the front seats, practically vibrating with energy.
"Road trip rules. Driver picks the speed, passenger picks the snacks—" he drops a plastic bag into my lap that's full of gas station junk food, "—and I pick the music, because Blake's playlist is two hours of sad violin music. "
"It's classical," Blake says. "It's calming."
"It makes me want to open the door and tuck and roll," Reid says. He's already plugging his phone into the aux cord. "We're doing 90s jams. Non-negotiable."
The opening bass line of "Tubthumping" blasts through the speakers.
Blake's jaw tightens. His knuckles go white on the wheel. Then very slowly, he reaches over and turns it down to bearable levels. Was the man blasting classical music on the way here?
I hide my smile behind the coffee cup. I can totally picture it. Big tough Blake riding through town in his big truck blasting Flight of the Bumblebee. "So," I say, raising my voice over Chumbawamba, "Sunriver. That's what, two hours?"
"About that," Reid yells from the back seat. "Over the pass. The mountains are gorgeous this time of year. You're gonna love it."
Two hours in a truck with Reid's chaotic energy and Blake's brooding silence. I'm not sure "love" is the word I'd use.
I won't be bored, that's for sure.
I settle back into the seat and dig through the snack bag. Red vines, beef jerky, a bag of those terrible orange circus peanuts that only Reid would buy.
The highway stretches ahead, cutting through a corridor of Douglas firs that seem to lean in toward us. Reid's 90s playlist has cycled through Smash Mouth and is now inflicting "MMMBop" on all of us. Blake looks like he wants to kill someone.
Not someone. Reid. Definitely Reid.
"So," I say, twisting in my seat to include both of them, "tell me about this piece. Reid said it's been in your workshop for three months?"
Blake's shoulders shift. Not quite a shrug, but close. "Custom dining table. Live edge walnut. Client wanted something that could seat twelve."
"Twelve people around one table." I whistle. "That's a lot of holiday dinners." Also, thank goodness there's going to be more help. I doubt the three of us could lift a table that size.
"It's for a vacation rental. High-end place. They host corporate retreats, family reunions, that kind of thing." He changes lanes to pass a slow-moving RV. "The owner saw a piece I did for a restaurant in Portland. Tracked me down."
"Blake's being modest," Reid pipes up from the back. "The table is insane. Like, museum-quality insane. Show her the pictures."
"I'm driving."
"I'll show her." Reid's already reaching forward, phone in hand. He swipes through his camera roll and holds it up for me.
My breath catches.
The table is massive—a single slab of wood that curves and flows like water frozen mid-ripple. The grain swirls in waves of amber and chocolate, and the natural edge is preserved, bark and all, following the tree's original shape. The finish gleams like honey in sunlight.
"Blake." I look over at him. "This is stunning."
His jaw works. "It's just wood."
"It's not just wood and you know it." I zoom in on the detail.
The joinery is invisible—I can't even see where the legs meet the top.
"How long did the actual build take?" I knew he did restorations, but how is this the first time I'm learning that he does custom stuff.
Gorgeous custom stuff. The man is an artist.
"Three months, give or take." He's staring at the road, but that gloomy air around him is lifting. "The slab sat in my shop for a year before that. Had to let it acclimate. Wood moves when the humidity changes. Rush it, and it'll warp on you."
"A year of just... waiting?"
"Waiting and planning. Figuring out how to cut it, where to place the legs so they don't fight the grain." He glances over, quick. "You don't force wood into what you want. You work with what it gives you."
"That sounds like good life advice."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "Maybe."