Chapter 2
Chapter two
Graham
Maeve Prescott is a distraction.
It’s been three days since she showed up at my door, and she’s made herself at home. I tell myself I’m just keeping an eye on her, Connor’s orders and all, but the truth is I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop noticing the way she moves through my house like she’s meant to be here.
Every morning, I tell myself to stay focused on work. Every afternoon, she finds a way to ruin that plan.
Today is no different.
She walks into my workshop, holding two steaming mugs. “Do you always work this hard, or are you just ignoring me?”
I don’t look up from the table leg I’m sanding. “Trying to get things done.”
She sets one mug next to my hand. The smell of coffee hits me, intense, dark roast, the way I like it. “You need caffeine to get things done. I’ve seen how you work.”
I glance at her. “You’ve seen me work a total of five minutes.”
“Five minutes is enough to form an opinion,” she says lightly, her voice teasing. “You’re a perfectionist, Graham Hawthorne.”
She smiles, and I swear she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s standing there in a faded T-shirt that’s seen better days and a pair of tight leggings that should be illegal.
She doesn’t belong here. She’s too bright, too alive, but damn if she doesn’t fit anyway.
“Connor warned me you were stubborn,” she says, sipping her own coffee.
“I’m not that stubborn.”
She starts to wander, trailing her fingers across the woodwork I’ve been sanding. Her nails scrape lightly against the grain, and I wonder what it would feel like if she ran those fingers on my skin. She stops beside the half-finished cedar chest in the corner.
“You made this?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice softens. “It’s beautiful.”
I shrug. “It’s just a box.”
Her gaze flicks up, steady. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I move past her and reach for the chisel. The air feels heavy now, charged. She doesn’t look away, and I can feel the weight of her eyes on my back.
“Can I help with something?” she asks after a moment.
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“Can’t have you around the tools. You could get hurt.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
This girl.
She walks around the workbench. The smell of her, sweet and something floral, cuts through the scent of sawdust and oil. I grip the edge of the table.
She moves toward the ladder that leads to the loft, curiosity written all over her face.
“What’s up there?”
“Storage.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that’s none of your business.”
That earns me a grin. “So, secrets, then.”
“Maeve.”
“Yes, Graham?”
“Don’t.”
Of course, she climbs the ladder.
I curse under my breath and move to steady the base, my hands gripping the rails tight. “You planning on falling to prove a point?”
“I’m fine,” she says, looking down at me. The smile she gives me isn’t innocent. “Besides, you’d catch me.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I mutter.
She laughs and stretches up, reaching for a shelf that doesn’t need reaching for. Her shirt lifts just enough for me to catch the curve of her lower back. My throat goes dry.
“See anything interesting?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.
“Not yet.” She glances down again, eyes glinting. “But I’ll keep looking.”
I grip the ladder tighter. “Maeve, I mean it. Get down.”
She pouts like she’s about to argue, then starts her slow descent. When she hits the floor, she’s still smiling.
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m not supposed to be.”
She steps closer. Too close. “You could try being a little fun. Might help you loosen up.”
“Loosen up?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Yeah. You’ve got this whole grumpy mountain man thing going on. It’s hot, don’t get me wrong, but it must be exhausting.”
I take a step back. “You done?”
“Not even close.”
“Maeve—”
She cuts me off with a soft laugh. “You’ve got sawdust on your face.”
Before I can stop her, she rises on her toes and wipes at my cheek with her thumb. It’s a slight, innocent touch. It shouldn’t mean anything.
Her eyes meet mine, and the air between us shifts.
I step back first. “You should head inside.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m protecting you.”
Her brow arches. “From what?”
I stare at her. “From me.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then she smiles slowly, like she just learned something important, and turns toward the door.
“Good luck with your table, Graham.”
She walks out, hips swaying just enough to make me curse under my breath.
When the door closes, I drag a hand over my face and let out a long breath. The shop is quiet again, but it’s the wrong kind of quiet. It’s the kind that doesn’t bring peace.
I try to go back to work, but the wood feels too heavy in my hands. Every thought keeps circling back to her. Her laugh. Her mouth. The way she looks at me like she knows exactly how close I am to breaking.
Connor’s my best friend. She’s off-limits.
So why does every part of me already want to cross that line?