Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Emily
The clock on the kitchen wall ticks past nine, and I check it for the tenth time in as many minutes.
Leif should have arrived an hour and a half ago, and my phone screen remains blank. No messages, no missed calls, and no explanation. I tap my fingers on the counter, the hollow rhythm echoing through the quiet cottage.
“Come on,” I mutter to my empty kitchen, swiping open my messages to check if I missed a notification.
But the last message I have from him remains unchanged.
Leif
See you soon.
Pinecrest Academy isn’t that far from my house.
The coffee sits cold in the pot, an inky film forming on its surface. I dump it down the drain, the liquid splashing around at the bottom of the stainless-steel sink.
I grab my phone again and navigate to his contact, my thumb hovering over the call button.
No. I set the phone on the counter and step away from it. Calling would give the impression that I’m worried, and I am not worried. I’m…concerned.
When I waved goodbye to Jared this morning as he drove off in my truck, the thought of being stranded never crossed my mind. The house is full of work waiting to be done, and the workshop has everything we need. Leaving hadn’t required a second thought.
Now, I regret the decision. Without the truck, I’m limited to what I can reach on foot. Gray light leaks through the window, the September sky hanging low and threatening rain.
A hundred scenarios flood my mind. Car accident. Flat tire. Medical emergency. Each possibility winds tighter around my chest until breathing becomes conscious work.
Practical action helps with anxiety. That’s what my therapist told me after Auren cut me out of the pack. So, I need to be practical.
I grab my boots from beside the door and yank them on, not bothering with the laces. Cool leather brushes my bare ankles as I map the route from my cottage to Pinecrest Academy. Four miles, most of it downhill, which means uphill coming back.
Not too bad if the rain holds off.
I reach for my red windbreaker on the hook by the door, and the fabric crinkles as I slide my arms through the sleeves.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell Mixie, who perches on the windowsill. “I’m not walking to town to look for a grown man.”
Her whiskers twitch in what I choose to interpret as agreement.
“But a walk to clear my head won’t hurt,” I continue, as if my cat might argue the point. “Then I’ll come back and—”
A knock at the door cuts through my justifications.
My heart rate kicks up, and I freeze mid-step, one boot half-tied. Relief crashes through me in a wave so intense it borders on anger.
I yank the door open to find Leif on my porch, his mauve-brown hair disheveled by the wind, cheeks flushed with color, though whether from exertion or embarrassment is hard to tell. His periwinkle eyes widen at my half-dressed state, one boot unlaced and windbreaker askew.
“Emily,” he says, my name rushing out of him on an exhale. “I’m so sorry I’m late.”
He clutches a paper bag in his hands, holding it out like a peace offering, and the scent of butter and cinnamon drifts from within.
“Drop off was rougher than I expected, and then I hit unexpected traffic on Harbor Street,” he continues, words tumbling over each other. “And the line at the bakery was out the door—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, accepting the paper bag.
His focus drops to my half-tied boot, and a small crease forms between his eyebrows. “Were you going somewhere?”
“I thought a morning walk might clear my head,” I say, offering a half-truth. “Since you were running late.”
Shame colors his cheeks. “I would have called, but my phone died.”
“Really, it’s fine,” I repeat. “I have a charger you can borrow.”
“Thank you. I promised Quinn she’d be able to reach me if needed.”
“We’ll charge it in the tool shed, just to be safe.” I step back to let him in. “Let me take care of these boots, and we can head to the workshop.”
As he steps past me into the entryway, his scent hits me with unexpected force. My Alpha instincts prickle in response, hairs raising along my arms beneath my jacket sleeves.
His pheromones tell a different story than his casual apology, the warm cedar giving away his distress with a burned quality. Whatever happened this morning left him unsettled, his biological signals broadcasting anxiety despite the composed surface.
He had said things went fine with Quinn over text, but now he’s backtracking. The timing doesn’t fit unless something happened after he left her classroom. Or the issue doesn’t involve her in the first place.
I want to ask, to push past the careful distance we maintain. But the set of his shoulders warns me off, his posture rigid beneath his casual stance.
Social expectations for acquaintances dictate that I pretend I can’t gauge his emotions from the scent he’s throwing off, and we’re not yet friends.
“I brought apple turnovers.” He gestures to the bag in my hand. “From the bakery by the dock. The one with the blue awning.”
“The Daily Bread,” I supply, placing the bag on my kitchen counter. “Their pastries are dangerous.”
“A small apology for being so late.” He hovers in the doorway. “If you’ve changed your mind about the lesson, I’ll understand.”
“Why would I change my mind?” I tug off my windbreaker and hang it back on its hook. “We’re still having perfect weather for woodworking. Unless you’ve changed yours?”
“No.” He rubs his thumb along the strap, catches a loose thread, twists it one too many times. “This matters to me.”
I study him for a moment, weighing the contradictions. His words say one thing, while his body says another. Whatever battle he’s fighting, he doesn’t want to share it with me.
And I have no right to demand he does.
“Then let’s not waste any more daylight.” I grab a hair tie from the bowl by the door and pull my hair into a practical ponytail. “The workshop’s out back. We can have the turnovers afterward as a reward.”
He follows me through the kitchen toward the back door, his footsteps almost silent on the wood floor, as if trying to minimize the space he occupies.
“Have you done any woodworking before?” I ask over my shoulder as I unlace my boots to change into proper work shoes.
“A shop class in high school,” he says. “I built a birdhouse with such a bad lean the entrance might as well not have existed.”
The image pulls a laugh from me, and some of the tension in the air dissolves.
“Well,” I say, reaching for the door handle, “at least you have nowhere to go but up.”
My workshop sits twenty yards behind the cottage, a structure I built with my own hands. When Auren lived here with me, it was the only place on the property that belonged to me.
The cedar-plank walls have weathered to the same soft gray as the overcast sky.
When I unlock the heavy padlock, the familiar scent of sawdust and linseed oil rises to meet me, settling like a comfort blanket.
Leif pauses at the threshold, his broad shoulders filling the doorway while he adjusts to the dimmer light inside.
“This is incredible,” he says, hushed with appreciation. “It reminds me of my grandpa’s old workshop.”
I flip the switches by the door, and overhead lights flicker on, illuminating the organized chaos of my sanctuary.
Workbenches line two walls, each surface clear except for my current project of a half-carved wooden duck taking shape beneath my chisels.
Tools hang on pegboards in meticulous arrangements, sorted by function and frequency of use.
The concrete floor bears stains from years of projects, each mark tied to a finished project.
“Built it myself,” I reply, pride pulling my spine straight. “The cottage came with a dilapidated tool shed, so I tore it down and started over.”
Leif steps inside and pauses as he takes in my collection of hand planes and spokeshaves. “Where do we start?”
I cross to the lumber rack against the far wall, where boards of various lengths and species wait for transformation. “I thought we’d start with a small shelf you could use someday.”
Excitement breaks through his reserve. “I’d like that.”
“Pine is forgiving for beginners,” I explain, selecting a length of clear pine board. “It’s soft enough not to fight the tools too much.”
I place the board on my primary workbench and grab a measuring tape from the pegboard. “What height would you like? Standard bookshelf height is about twelve inches between shelves.”
As Leif moves closer, the floorboard creaks beneath his weight. “Whatever you recommend. I trust your expertise.”
“No,” I shake my head, offering him the tape measure. “This is your project. You need to decide how you want it to function.”
He accepts the tape with a surprised blink, as if unused to having his preferences consulted. “Maybe fifteen inches? Some of my art books are oversized, and they never fit on regular shelves.”
“Excellent choice.” I retrieve a carpenter’s pencil from the cup on the workbench. “Measure twice, cut once. Old saying, but it saves a lot of headaches.”
I demonstrate the proper way to mark the wood, explaining why we account for the saw blade’s width. When I hand him the pencil, our fingers brush, and I notice there’s no hint of calluses roughening his baby-soft skin. Teacher’s hands versus builder’s hands. The contrast couldn’t be clearer.
Leif’s brow furrows as he measures out the right length. “My mother wasn’t thrilled when I took shop class instead of debate in high school. My birdhouse just proved her right.”
“But here you are, trying again.”
“Here I am,” he agrees, finishing his line. “What next?”
“Now we cut.” I guide him to the miter saw, give him a pair of goggles, and explain each safety feature before I place his hands in the correct positions. “Keep your fingers here, and never, ever rush a cut.”
His body tenses as the saw whirs to life, but he follows my instructions, and the sweet, resinous scent of cut pine fills the air as sawdust sprinkles the front of his shirt.