Chapter 17 #2
We fall into our rhythm again, and when we finish the shelf, we move to the more complicated angles of the shoe rack. The work requires concentration, each surface demanding attention to detail.
My brush slips on a corner joint, leaving a thick glob of polyurethane that begins to drip down the side. My muscles tense for the expected criticism to follow.
Emily reaches past me, her arm brushing mine as she grabs a rag. “It’s fixable.” She hands me the cloth. “Clean it up before it sets, then reapply with a lighter touch.”
I stare at the rag in my hand, the simple phrase echoing in my mind. It’s fixable.
How long have I been treating every mistake as evidence of a fundamental flaw? How many times has Carson’s voice in my head transformed recoverable errors into proof of my inadequacy?
My fingers close around the cloth as my perception shifts. Mistakes aren’t permanent indictments. They’re fixable.
I’m fixable.
I clean the dripping polyurethane, the mess disappearing as Emily said it would.
“You said you entered construction through the vocational program, right?” I wait for her confirmation. “How did you come to woodworking? Was that also a program you took?”
A smile spreads over her lips, and her beauty strikes me once again. “I loved being part of the building process, but you can’t take a condominium complex home with you once it’s finished. So I took some classes at the local community college when I could afford it.”
She applies another careful stroke. “I grew up with nothing permanent. But a shelf like this? You can take it anywhere. You design it for a purpose, and when you look at it, you’ll have the memories of the time and care that went into it. And it’s a solid piece you can someday pass on.”
Her words find an echo inside me. “Teaching did the same for me, in a different way. The continuity.”
Emily’s head lifts, and she waits for me to continue.
“Mr. Benson was my inspiration,” I explain, focusing on the smooth finish beneath my brush. “And when I stood in front of my first class, I felt the same continuity. I was building on what he started, and if I’ve been an inspiration to at least one of my students, I’ll be happy.”
“I’m sure it’s more than just one,” Emily says. “Look at how much Quinn trusts and admires you.”
Pleasure warms my cheeks at the compliment.
“It’s different, being able to give one student all my attention.
Public schools spread teachers so thin that kids slip through the cracks.
It’s better at private schools, but there’s no way I could take a class on science adventures every day like I can Quinn.
This job has been a complete joy for me.
I’m a little sad about handing her over to Ms. Peterson now. ”
Emily focuses on her work. “Does Quinn like Ms. Peterson?”
“She does. There was a little tension over Sprinkles at the start, but he’s such a good boy. He won her over, and the kids are respectful that he’s there to work.”
“That’s good. He’s not a small dog.”
“No, he’s not.” I chuckle as I picture the Newfoundland. “I don’t think Quinn’s mom knew what she was adopting when she brought him home as a puppy.”
We return to our task, but the air has shifted between us, my awareness of Emily heightened.
We move around each other with careful coordination as we finish the shoe rack. When our arms brush while reaching for the same can of finish, neither of us pulls back right away. Heat blooms where our skin connects, traveling up my arm and settling somewhere beneath my ribs.
“Almost done,” Emily says, bordering on a purr. “Just the edges left.”
She demonstrates how to apply a thin coat to the narrow surfaces, her fingers steady and sure. When I try to copy her technique, I fumble the paintbrush.
“Here.” She moves behind me. “Like this.”
Her hand covers mine, guiding the brush in smooth, even strokes. Her breasts brush my back, her breath warm near my ear. My pulse jumps, and the flannel scent wafting from Emily intensifies with sudden awareness.
“Steady pressure,” she murmurs. “Let the brush do the work.”
Our joined hands move across the wood grain. The simple touch jolts through me, charged with possibility. When she steps back, cold air rushes into the space between us, and I suppress a shiver.
“Got it now?” she asks.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Emily stands two feet away, but the distance might as well be inches for how much her presence affects me.
As we apply the final touches, we set our brushes down at the same moment, surveying our completed work.
Satisfaction radiates from Emily as she crosses her arms, a small smile playing at her lips. “Beautiful work. No one would believe it’s a beginner’s project.”
I turn toward her, caught off guard by her pride. “I had an excellent teacher.”
Her gray eyes meet mine, flecks of silver catching the sunlight streaming through the windows.
A strand of her hair has fallen across her forehead, and my fingers twitch with the desire to brush it back.
She stands close enough for me to catch the subtle shift in her pheromones, an undercurrent of inviting sweetness beneath the flannel.
My body sways forward, helpless to resist the gravity between us. Her pupils dilate into dark pools that promise everything I’ve only ever glimpsed in other people’s lives. Her lips part on an inhale, and her breath mingles with mine.
The workshop dissolves around us until nothing exists but this fragile, terrifying moment, where I hover on the precipice of kissing Emily, of falling into her arms, of finally discovering if she tastes as good as my imagination.
The harsh buzz of my phone shatters the silence, and I jerk back as if burned.
Emily doesn’t move away, though, until I pull out my phone, breaking the moment completely.
Disappointed in myself, I check the screen, and the email notification locks the air in my lungs.
Subject: Support Plan Review: Quinn Patel.
My fingers feel numb as I open it to scan the details. The meeting, scheduled for tomorrow, an hour before I pick up Quinn, will review support accommodations and reassessment of service animal requirements and classroom integration plan.
Carson’s name appears at the bottom as the meeting organizer, along with the school counselor.
My blood runs cold. This is it. Carson’s first real move.
“Everything okay?”
Emily’s question pulls me back to the present. I hadn’t realized how transparent my reaction must be, the sudden tension in my shoulders, the change in my breathing, the spike in my pheromones that probably fills the workshop with my fear.
“Fine,” I say, pocketing the phone. “Just school stuff.”
Emily studies me. “If you need to take off, the finishing is done. It will need to dry for twenty-four hours.”
“No, it’s—” I stop, unwilling to lie again. “It’s a meeting I need to deal with. About Quinn’s accommodations.”
I wait for the questions, the concern, the offers to help that would require more explanation than I can give.
Instead, Emily dries her hands on a shop towel. “Will Blake be attending?”
I shake my head. “It’s a preliminary meeting. I’ll find out what the issues are and report back to the Wright Pack.”
“If you need a second pair of ears,” she says, “I can take the time off.”
“Thank you.” My throat tightens at the offer. “But I think I’ll be okay.”
She accepts my response, and we clean up in silence, putting away brushes and sealing cans of finish.
When the workshop is returned to its pristine state, Emily gestures to the pieces we made. “I can store these here until your cabin is ready.”
“Oh…” Dismayed, I take in the two large pieces of furniture. “I hadn’t considered where I’d put them when we finished. I can keep them in the hotel room, if you need the space.”
She waves off the offer and heads toward the door. “It’s fine. Once they’re dry, I can move them to the attic, so they won’t be in my way.”
“I appreciate it.” I take off my apron and hang it on the peg by the door. “The room service is nice at the hotel, but I can’t wait to be back in a space that’s my own.”
“If you ever want a home-cooked meal, our door is always open,” she says as she leads the way around the house to the driveway. “I always cook enough for leftovers, so it’s never an imposition, even if it’s last minute.”
I follow her to my car, where she stops and slides her hands into her pockets. “Well, have a good rest of your week.”
“You, too. And thanks for today,” I say as I open my car door. “For the lesson. And for…”
I gesture toward the cottage, unable to articulate how I’m grateful for the space, the respect, and the lack of pressure these lessons have been.
She looks off to the side, her jaw working in thought before she says, “I could make this a regular Wednesday thing, if you’re interested.”
I straighten in surprise. “Are you sure?”
She scruffs her boot on the driveway. “Nathaniel and Blake have been telling me I need to take more time off. You’d be giving me an excuse to relax more.”
A flutter of excitement fills me, and I lean on the car door. “Well, if you need the excuse, I’d be happy to oblige.”
She turns back to me, and the pink in her cheeks undoes me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Before I do something stupid, I slide behind the wheel. “I’ll be here on Wednesday.”