16. Rose
rose
I showed up extra early to craft night. I usually do because I don’t like the looks I get when I’m late to things.
Tonight, I tack on ten minutes more. It only seems right to respect the time and effort Pamela, the librarian in charge of adult activities, puts into each month’s craft.
My early start is purely out of reverence and appreciation for the librarian arts.
And maybe a tiny bit because my skin’s still buzzing from my afternoon with Reed, and I need the distraction before I combust. I shouldn’t let myself get so fluttery over him—this is what I signed up for, after all.
I specifically covered the possibility of PDA when we talked about the ground rules for our fake relationship.
But up until today, our affectionate displays have gone one way: me latching myself onto him.
He’s been a mostly passive, semi-unwilling participant.
The hug last night was private and due to unusual circumstances.
Those circumstances being me acting like a crazy woman.
But touching me of his own free will in public today—even if it was just his thumb—seems monumental.
Maybe we need more practice with…thumbs. Fingers. Hands. All of that. So I won’t get quite so flustered next time he initiates something. It’d be pretty embarrassing if he touches me and my knees go so weak I fall over in front of his family. Think of the optics.
Yes. The optics are why we need to practice.
I help Pamela distribute stained glass paint among the tables already topped with butcher paper, trying not to imagine practicing anything with Reed. I’m failing spectacularly.
“Rose?”
I look up to see the blond woman who was in the coffee shop earlier standing in the project room doorway. She’s changed into a T-shirt and shorts, but I’m sure it’s her. I recognize the beach waves I was so jealous of this afternoon. “Cassie!”
“Hello again.” She comes closer, looking over the tables covered in paints, brushes, and dollar store picture frames. “Do you work at the library, too?”
“No. I just got here early.” No reason why. “Are you here for craft night?”
“That’s the plan.” She leans closer, dropping her voice. “I was expecting a younger age range for this.”
Adult craft night tends to lure in a specific demographic. Most of the women in here probably go by “Nana” now.
“Come sit with me.” I lead her to the front of the room, and we take over one of the folding tables. A few more women file in, all roughly twice our age.
“So, the library isn’t where people in their thirties go to meet up in Sunshine?” Cassie asks with a wry smile.
“That’s probably the Stumpjumper. It’s the nicest bar in town. Or Delish, the diner. Everyone hangs out there like it’s our second home. The burgers are amazing, and the owners are kind of everyone’s honorary aunts.”
“Good to know.” She shuffles the printed images in the middle of the table, neatening the stack only to fan it out again in a perfect display. “It’s harder to meet people in a small town than Hallmark movies have led me to believe.”
“Don’t start doubting now. I’m sure a rugged Christmas tree farm owner is right around the corner for you.”
Cassie laughs. “And he’s secretly a prince hiding out from an arranged marriage.”
“But it turns out you’re secretly from the royal line he was supposed to marry into, and you never knew.”
She gives me an impressed look. “You’re good at this.”
“I’ve watched a lot of Hallmark movies.”
As the room fills, Ada and Isabel beeline over to snag the other side of our table, along with Rosetta, the library director.
They prove my point about the demographic in here.
Their hairstyles range from Ada’s bob to Rosetta’s cornrows twisted into an elegant high bun, but they’re all firmly on the gray side.
No shame in a life well lived, of course, but if Cassie’s looking to meet people our age, her options in here are limited.
“Rose,” Ada says, settling on a molded plastic chair. “We were hoping you’d be here tonight.”
“We’re overdue for a catch-up.” Isabel’s eyes sparkle at me. I can guess what they want to chat about. They’re sweethearts, but their favorite subject is everyone else’s business.
I introduce them to Cassie, hoping for her sake she doesn’t have a fresh source of gossip for them to sniff out.
She tells them about her recent move from Portland and her work coordinating weddings at the lodge, when a large figure looms in the doorway on the opposite side of the room.
I look up to see Reed watching me like he’s five seconds from walking straight out of the library again.
My heart rate kicks up, and a massive grin splits my face.
I don’t know what he’s doing here, but my veins are suddenly pumping with fizzy soda.
I wave him closer, and some of the wariness eases out of his expression.
He lumbers over, squeezing between chairs and tables to reach me.
All eyes in the room follow him, along with the sigh of whispers.
Men don’t usually turn up to craft night.
Young, devastatingly handsome men who look they should be chopping down trees to build a cabin in the woods? Never.
He pulls a chair around to the end of the table next to me. When he sinks onto it, he glances around the room once before his gaze locks on mine. Ada, Isabel, and Rosetta wear similar knowing smiles. It’s hard to focus on their smirks when I’m this locked in on the man beside me.
“You changed your mind.” It comes out a little awestruck, but I can’t help that now.
He lifts a shoulder. “You wore me down.”
My smile has passed “pleasantly surprised” and moved straight into “all I need is some face paint and a clown nose” levels, but I can’t do a thing about it.
Reed’s mouth quirks with pleasure of his own.
It’s not quite time to whip out my bird-watching notebook, but we’re inching nearer all the time.
Cassie leans closer and drops her voice. “You were saying something about a rugged Christmas tree farmer?”
We laugh softly together. Fine. Maybe there’s a reason I have men in flannel on the brain.
Pamela walks us through how to do the craft—trace an image onto the picture frame glass using black puffy paint, then fill in the “mosaics” with transparent glass paint.
She has a lot of simple pictures printed out for us to choose from, along with a few complex ones for the more ambitious among us.
I pick a sun coming over a mountain peak with rays extending into the sky that looks medium-hard to complete.
Reed picks a rooster. The man could not be cuter.
The room hums with chatter as we start working on our projects. Pamela slowly walks among the tables, offering advice as needed. Just like every month, someone pipes up to ask if anyone brought a bottle of wine, to titters of laughter.
I know it’s a whole thing, but tipsy painting sounds like it’d be a mess.
“I didn’t know you liked doing crafts, Reed.” Ada can’t stop smirking at the two of us.
“I do some woodworking.” His hands are remarkably steady as he traces the image onto his glass pane. My black tracing work already has bubbly clumps from dragging the paint tip at varying speeds.
“Women love a man who’s skilled with his hands,” Isabel says. “Isn’t that right, Rose?”
Rosetta rolls her eyes at her friend. Cassie snickers softly. I focus on my tracing like I’m concentrating much too hard to hear what Isabel said. Beneath the table, Reed’s knee presses against mine.
Everyone at this table is determined to make me blush.
“Speaking of skilled hands,” Cassie says with a little cough. “Does anyone have a good local handyman recommendation? I need some help with a few projects around my house.”
“Is it just you, then?” Ada looks up from her half-completed geometric pattern. “Did you move down by yourself, or with a…?”
She leaves the options open. Boyfriend? Husband? Wife? Various dogs and farm animals?
“It’s just me. I don’t mind DIY, but I don’t have time for all these projects.”
“Are you in a fixer-upper?” Rosetta asks.
“More than I expected. I toured it twice before I bought it, but you learn a lot once you’re actually living in it.”
Ada shares a glance with each of her friends. “Why don’t you stop in and ask Luke at Bridger Hardware?”
“Luke is always so helpful,” Isabel adds. “He’ll be able to handle any project you have.”
Reed pauses his work to look up. “Luke’s not a handyman.”
“But he’d be willing to help out Cassie.”
He frowns. “I don’t see why he would.”
Ada shushes him like we’re back in her second grade classroom. She fixes a much gentler gaze on Cassie. “Don’t listen to him. You get yourself on over to Bridger Hardware and ask for Luke. He’ll take care of everything you need. I’m sure of it.”
Looks like Cassie just lost whatever hope she had of flying under their radar.
“Okay, these turned out surprisingly good.” Cassie’s gazing over our completed glass panes an hour later. Despite conversation veering off to attempts at matchmaking and nosing into various aspects of our personal lives, we managed to finish painting on time.
“Next month, we’re doing book folding.” Pamela’s gathering the used supplies into a bin as the room starts to clear out. “Everything’s provided, just bring yourself. Invite a friend.” Her gaze lands meaningfully on Reed.
I bet they’d love to add more strapping young guys to their drop-in rotation.
“It was wonderful to meet you, Cassie.” Rosetta carefully holds her completed glass pane in front of her. The paint won’t be fully dry for twenty-four hours, so we’re all being extra cautious with our projects. I can just imagine tripping and getting paint-splattered glass everywhere.
“We hope to see you around more.” Ada gingerly picks up her pane. “Stop and talk now that you know us.”
“Don’t forget our advice,” Isabel tells her. “About going to see to Luke Bridger.”
Cassie laughs under her breath. “I won’t.”
It would be impossible to forget after all their enthusiastic reminders. Reed spent half the evening grumbling over his paint as they spun poetic descriptions of his oldest brother.
Once the three women head for the door, Cassie turns to me. “Do you want to exchange numbers? Maybe you can give me more tips about places to visit around Sunshine. Or we can have a Hallmark movie marathon some night.”
“I’d love that.” We put our numbers in each other’s phones and say goodbye.
I stand, and Reed does, too. “I’ll walk you out.”
Outside, the warm night air caresses us as we slowly make our way through the parking lot.
One thing I love about central Oregon in the summertime is that the day’s heat goes down as soon as the sun fully does.
Nights like this make me wish I had a fire pit in my back yard to snuggle up in front of.
“What do you think about Ada and Isabel’s plans for Luke and Cassie?” I ask. They weren’t subtle about it, so I don’t feel I need to be, either. “Think that’s a good match?”
“I’m staying out of it.” He sounds like he’s refusing to enter a rat-infested room. “They’re even worse at digging into people’s lives than Lucy is.”
“I keep meaning to ask about that. Luke and Lucy?” You’d expect them to be twins, but he’s got to be seven or eight years older than she is.
His mouth tips up the tiniest amount. “My parents let us older kids help name the youngest ones. Luke thought his name was the best, and he was the loudest. So when she was born, Lucy it was.”
“That’s pretty cute. What did you want to name her?”
“Ladybug. I petitioned hard for it, too.”
My heart squeezes with affection for five-year-old Reed.
We reach my car, and I tuck my mountain scene safely in the front seat. I turn back to where he’s standing, dutifully holding his stained glass rooster so the paint doesn’t smudge.
“I bet if you could name me, you’d call me Gnat.” My mouth tips up in a little smirk. “Because I’m always flying around harassing you, and you can’t get rid of me.”
I laugh softly, but he doesn’t join in.
“I’d call you firefly,” he says. “Because you shine with everything you have.”
I suck in a breath, staring at him in the fading twilight.
Warmth flows through my limbs like melted caramel.
That might be the sweetest thing a man’s ever said to me.
That’s what he’s been all night. Sweet. Showing up and painting a silly craft, enduring Ada and Isabel’s constant hints and innuendos. All…for me? Because I invited him?
Before I can overthink it, I rest one hand on his chest and stretch on my tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek just above his beard. His skin is soft but heated, his chest firm beneath my touch. The fresh scent of his soap surrounds us, and I pause half a second to breathe it in at its source.
When I drop back down to my heels, Reed’s gaze has turned molten. Firefly might be right because in this moment, my whole body must be aflame. I wait, hoping he’ll move in for a real kiss, but he stays perfectly still.
“Thanks for coming tonight,” I say softly.
He swallows. Nods. Moves not a fraction of an inch more.
I get in my car, watching him stand there motionless in my rearview mirror. Reed might not be a gargoyle, but I sure managed to turn him to stone. I smile to myself as I pull away.
Maybe we both need practice.