Chapter 13
I gesture to the large selection of lumber. “Here are your options.”
Shayna’s eyes go wide as she looks up at the towering shelves. “Um, do you have any favorites? I’ve only heard of common kinds, like oak and pine. And I’ve heard of redwood trees, but I’m not even sure if they make wood out of those.”
Looks like we’re basically starting from ground zero.
I move closer to the shelves. “For a project like this, I’d suggest cedar or maple.
” I point each of them out on the shelves, running my hands along the grains.
“They’re both pretty water-resistant and look nice on their own, but they take well to stain if that’s the route you decide to go. ”
She takes a sip of her strawberry matcha and looks back and forth between them like it’s the hardest choice to make, rather than just simply selecting a species of wood.
“Just pick the one you think will look the best paired with flowers,” I say.
“It feels like a big decision.” Shayna places her free hand on her hip. “Which one do you think I should get?”
“Are you forgetting our deal?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You said I had to learn how to say no and set boundaries, not make a big decision about the shelves that will be on my flower truck for years to come.”
“Part of saying no to people was also about discovering what you enjoy.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “You need to figure out what you like—what you want for yourself—not because someone else asks it of you or suggests it.”
Her expression grows determined. “You’re right.” She peruses the options once more before pointing at the cedar. “That one. It’s really pretty.”
“Cedar it is.” I pile the correct number of planks into our cart, based on the measurements we took of the back of her truck.
Before I can push the cart to the next section, Shayna steps in front of it. “I have to ask one more time. Are you sure you don’t mind building the shelves? I can always hire someone.”
“I’ve got it.”
She hesitates. “I know you work long shifts. I really don’t want you to have to watch tutorial videos on your days off.”
I blow out a long breath. This wasn’t information I was planning on sharing with her—with anyone—but if it will make her not feel bad about me working on this project, then I know I need to tell her. “I don’t need to watch any videos.”
She steps around the cart, closer to me, puzzled. “How do you know how to build tiered shelving?”
“There were a lot of rainy days in Seattle, so I decided to pick up a hobby other than fishing.”
“Woodworking?” she asks, and I nod. “What have you built?”
What haven’t I built is the real question.
I’ve tried my hand at just about everything: rocking chairs, dressers, coffee tables, and benches.
But, oddly enough, my favorite things I’ve made are vases.
I enjoy taking wood and crafting it into unique shapes and designs and adding a glass interior to hold flowers.
I’ve never sold anything I’ve made—I’m still an amateur woodworker, after all—but creating something new with my own two hands has been a great escape for me.
“Just…things,” I grunt, hoping she’ll leave the subject alone.
“Oh, come on. You can tell me.” She looks up at me expectantly.
“It’s nothing special.”
“I find that hard to believe.” I see her smile out of my periphery as I push the cart forward. “You’re not the kind of man to do anything halfway.”
Her words strike a chord in me. I’m a hard worker, but I’ve always struggled with doubting myself.
Doubting every word that comes out of my mouth.
Doubting that I’ll ever be enough for anyone.
Doubting if I’m really meant to climb the career ladder at the station.
Doubting why anyone would ever buy mediocre wood projects from a nobody when they can get something similar from a professional.
“Mallory didn’t say anything about special wood pieces after your family helped you unpack.” Shayna takes quick steps to keep stride with me.
“The movers I used brought my truck, furniture, and my boxes first. The final truck has all of my tools and wood pieces.”
“When is this load coming?”
“Tomorrow,” I mutter.
“Mal didn’t mention helping you unpack again.”
“That’s because she doesn’t know,” I say, wishing she would quit digging.
Shayna stops walking in the middle of the main aisle. I sigh and turn around, ready for whatever verbal lashing I’m about to get.
“Were you ever going to tell anyone?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
She closes the distance between us and grabs my arm. My brows knit together when my initial reaction isn’t to pull my arm away. I don’t have much time to think about it, though, because she continues talking.
“Why are you so insistent on keeping everyone at arm’s length?”
“I’m not,” I argue.
Shayna doesn’t back down. “Then why doesn’t your family know about this huge hobby of yours? One so big you have a separate moving truck bringing all the things you’ve made.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know.”
“If you’re not against it, then how would you feel about a small entourage showing up at your house tomorrow to help?”
I walked right into that. “I—”
“Great, it’s settled, then. What time are the movers coming?”
“Eight, but—”
She waves her hand. “Say no more. We’ve got you covered.” She pulls out her phone, probably sending out a group text to assemble her small entourage.
I give the cart one good push to get it rolling again and head across the store to where I know they stock vases, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to make sure Shayna’s still following and didn’t run into anything while texting and walking. It can be just as dangerous as texting and driving.
During one of my shifts in Seattle, our station was called to a scene where a civilian had walked right into a coned-off section of the road and fallen into an open manhole. How does one walk into a construction zone that’s clearly marked? By texting while crossing the road.
Thankfully, Shayna reaches the vase aisle unscathed, though there were a few close calls involving some displays. She slides her phone back into her purse and takes another large sip of her matcha before looking up at the vases. “How did you find them so fast?”
I shrug. “I come here fairly often.”
“And you just remember where everything is?”
“Most things.”
She fans her face. “There’s something so hot about a man who knows his way around a hardware store.”
My mouth falls open in shock, and I can’t help it—I laugh. This time, it doesn’t sound dead. It’s alive, echoing throughout the store.
Shayna’s eyes go wide as her cheeks turn bright pink. “Please tell me I didn’t just say that out loud.”
“I would, but then I’d be lying.”
“Sweet pea,” she hisses, as if it’s a curse, making me laugh again. She swats my arm. “Would you stop laughing? Can’t you see that I’m mortified?” Shayna shakes her head as she attempts to move around me. “I’m going to go find a dark corner to hide in.”
I grab her wrist, stopping her. She looks up at me, a deep blush still evident on her cheeks.
Her eyes dart between me and the open aisle over my shoulder, like she’s deciding if she has enough room to escape.
When she looks up at me again with vulnerability clear in her gaze, I’m hit with a feeling deep in my gut.
I place my free hand on my stomach, wondering what’s going on in there. Maybe the chicken sandwich I had for lunch isn’t sitting well. Shayna worries her bottom lip and my eyes track the motion. There’s that feeling again in the pit of my abdomen.
No. It’s not possible. I don’t get butterflies.
But it feels like hundreds of them are taking flight, trying to lead me to her.
This can’t be happening. Women need more than what I can offer.
It’s like my ex told me—I’m just a boring, eternal homebody who can’t even hold a simple conversation.
Shayna deserves more than that. She’s sunshine in human form and needs a man who can make her shine brighter, not dull her.
There’s no way I can be attracted to Shayna. Scratch that, there’s no way I can be attracted to one of my sister’s best friends. There has to be some kind of unspoken sibling code about that.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice gentle. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“I don’t blame you. That was so embarrassing.” She peers up at me through her lashes, only a faint blush remaining on her cheeks. “And I like your laugh.”
I don’t have a response to that. It’s usually hard for me to remember the last time I laughed, yet I can recall two distinct times in the past few weeks that I’ve laughed because of something Shayna said.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” I let go of her wrist, wanting to break this weird connection between us. “Consider it forgotten.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, leaving me to wonder if that wasn’t the reaction she wanted. But this—we—can’t be anything more. “Right. Thanks.” Shayna moves farther down the aisle, perusing the galvanized vase options.
I stay by the cart and wait for her, processing everything that just occurred. While Shayna needs to figure out what she wants, it looks like I need to brainstorm some ways to keep myself from thinking that she’s what I want.
I’m refilling my coffee mug the next morning when I hear voices outside. I glance at the time on the microwave. 7:54. The movers shouldn’t be here for six more minutes, so that can only mean one thing: Shayna’s arrived with her entourage.
I finish topping off my coffee, knowing I’ll need the extra boost of caffeine today, before I slide on my shoes and head out front.
But no amount of caffeine could have prepared me for the scene before me.
When Shayna said she’d have a small entourage ready to help, I was thinking two or three people.
Not seven adults on my postage stamp of a front lawn.