Chapter 12
As much as I tried not to watch Birdie and Oliver talking together, I couldn’t help from sneaking glances toward the table where they worked, heads close together.
Right then they were roaring with laughter, but just moments ago had been staring into each other's eyes with such tenderness that I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut.
It had to be residual feelings from that stupid dream, or thinking of how Birdie had studied my face during our seven minutes in heaven.
There was no reason for me to feel like this just because they were having tender moments and making each other laugh.
For God’s sake, that was the whole point of this contest—for Oliver to be happy.
Get your head right, Knox. You’re not allowed to have feelings for this woman.
Thankfully, I was at my home away from home. I made my way to the back of the room and through the heavy wooden door that led to the workshop.
My dad used to bring me there as a teenager; he wanted me to find a productive way to blow off steam after getting into a fight at school.
What started as chopping wood for Mr. Lewellen evolved into a summer job shadowing the Lewellen family, taking care of whatever small tasks needed to be done around the shop.
After losing my parents, it became my place of solace.
Whether it was taking out my grief by swinging an axe against an innocent Scotch pine or sweeping the woodshop in silence as I sifted through my thoughts, this was where I came whenever I needed to think.
I heard the door open as I settled at my workbench, grabbing one of the animal figurines I was carving as a Christmas gift for Rosie. I turned around to see Mr. Lewellen walking in.
“Knox, I didn’t see you sneak back here.”
It didn’t matter what time of year or how formal the occasion, I wasn’t sure I had ever seen Mr. Lewellen in anything besides a flannel shirt and worn jeans—perhaps his way of rebelling in his adulthood against the formality of growing up in a manor house as a lord’s son.
Over the years, his belly had become more pronounced, and his gray hair had started to disappear.
Seeing him age often made me wonder what my own dad would have looked like with the passage of time.
“Yeah, sorry. I needed to get out of the art room and come find some peace and quiet.”
“It’s a whole show in there, isn’t it? I don’t know how Prince Oliver does it, all the conversation and such. You know me, I much prefer the quiet of the woods and my shop.”
“I feel the same way. But I’m sure you’re going to love the media coverage of the place—-it should be great for business.”
Mr. Lewellen chuckled. “Oh, Celeste is already worked up about the influx of customers and orders we’re going to get. But we’ll handle it.”
“If you need any extra hands, just let me know and I’ll make sure you have the help,” I assured him.
“We’ll manage. It’ll be good to stay busy right before Christmas, and it’ll give us a little extra money to put into Lyla’s wedding this spring.”
I huffed a laugh through my nose. “That should make her happy.”
The Lewellens’s youngest daughter Lyla and I had dated for a few months about four years prior.
She was an amazing woman—intelligent, beautiful, witty.
We tried to make our relationship work when she moved to France for school but ultimately concluded that it was best we break things off while we were still on good terms. I had been afraid that Mr. Lewellen would be angry and think I broke his daughter’s heart, but the next day he had walked into the shop and let me know, man to man, that he understood and just wanted us both to be happy.
She met her fiancé, Laurent, at London Fashion Week two years ago.
I had met him a few times and he seemed like a very kind man.
He was the polar opposite of Darren Lewellen, working in a high-rise, financing one of Paris’s largest fashion brands, but that’s one of the reasons why Lyla loved him.
I think we both knew long ago that she wouldn’t end up in Wexstone, and she was looking for something different for her life.
“What are you working on there?” Mr. Lewellen pointed to the horse I was carving.
“Oh, this? It’s a horse for Rosie. Every year for Christmas, I give her a few new animals to add to her collection. She used to play with them alongside her dollhouse, but now she keeps them displayed in a glass case.”
“That’s real nice of you. If she ever lets it slip that you made them, the country’s little ones and their parents are going to be knocking down your door to make and sell them.”
“I guess I’d better swear her to secrecy then,” I chuckled. I had no desire to make this into a business. Carving was something to keep my hands busy while I sorted through my thoughts.
“So, Prince Oliver is looking for a bride. Do you have your eyes on anyone these days?”
Before I could answer, the door to the shop swung open and Birdie walked in, looking around in confusion.
“Oh crap,” she huffed. “I thought the bathroom was through here.”
“It’s inside the gift shop, two buildings down,” I told her.
“Gift shop building. Got it.” She paused as she turned back toward the door, taking in the woodshop. “Wow, this place is amazing!” She moved toward my workbench, and I felt my muscles instinctively tense.
“Well, I’m going to head back out there, make sure everyone is settled,” Darren said, patting me once on my shoulder.
“All right.” I didn’t want him to leave; I didn’t want to be left alone with Birdie. Not after that dream, and not after seeing her with Oliver.
I scooted back from my workbench, putting as much space between us as I could without getting up and walking away. I reminded myself that she had no idea that she was the reason I had even snuck away to find some solace.
“Wow, Knox. Did you make this?” She held up the horse I had just been working on.
“Yeah.”
“This is amazing. I had no idea you were so good at this stuff.” She set the horse back on the table.
“I mean, I figured you chopped wood since, you know, that’s your whole vibe.
” She waved her hand toward me, referencing my clothes.
“But I didn’t know you were also an artist. That’s so cool. ” She smiled brightly.
No one had ever called me an artist. Typically, they just called me an ass, or moody, or a recluse. Artist wasn’t a description that had ever been used before.
“If you say so,” I mumbled, suddenly embarrassed.
“Is this where you work?” She gestured vaguely around the workshop.
“No, I’m head of the grounds crew at the palace. This is where…” I stopped, wondering just how much I wanted to divulge to her about why I came here. I cleared my throat. “This is just a hobby.” Short answers seemed better. Less chance of a prolonged conversation.
“Well, it’s such a neat place. I can see why you’d want to come here. I really enjoyed the tour and meeting everyone today.”
Her joy was evident—she had been nothing but smiles the entire afternoon, asking so many questions and being the first to volunteer at each workshop.
I could tell that she was really trying to get to know Wextone’s people and culture.
It made me like her even more, especially when contrasted with the other women, who thus far seemed to either think they were too good for this place or were too shy to speak up much.
Oliver needed someone outgoing who could at least feign interest in his country.
“What’s this called?” Birdie asked, pulling me out of my thoughts. She held up one of my carving knives.
“That’s a flat chisel knife.”
She placed it back in my knife roll and picked up another. “And this one?”
“That’s a pen knife.”
She set it down. “Amazing. I didn’t know there were so many different knives to carve with.”
“Yeah.”
“Could you show me how to carve something?”
I started, taken aback. “Uh, sure?”
“My granddad had a woodshop in his backyard. He made my mom shelves, benches for her garden, and all these little birdhouses. She loved them. He died when I was little, though,” she said, the words rushing out.
I picked up a long, flat-head knife and a random chunk of wood from the scrap pile next to my bench. I handed her the wood and the knife and stood beside her.
“Okay, so take the knife and just start scraping down the wood with it. Make sure you’re always working away from your body,” I instructed.
She started working, making large divots that hurt my soul. I placed my hand on her wrist, stopping her.
“All right, you see how you’re making those divots? That means you’re pushing down too hard when you rake down. Hold the wood tight but move the knife a little faster, and don’t push down so hard.”
“Okay…” she said as she swiped down again, this time sending the knife flying across the worktable. “Shit!”
I held back a laugh. “It’s okay. I don’t think your grip was tight enough on that one. And that’s a good example of why we always work away from our bodies.” I reached for the knife and handed it back to her.
“Can you show me? I’m more of a kinetic learner.”
I moved to stand behind her, placing my hands over hers.
Standing behind her brought back flashes of grabbing her ass in the closet and ripping off her dress in the previous night’s dream.
This was torture. “I’ll try,” I said, attempting to keep my breath calm and steady.
“Although you’re a leftie, so it’ll be a bit trickier.
” I wrapped her fingers around the knife and guided her hand down, trying not to think of how those same fingers had felt in my hair. “Like this. Firm, yet gentle.”
I could feel her breath catch. Oh God, can she feel my dick poking into her back? A quick self-check confirmed that it wasn’t. Why did her breath catch, then?
“Firm yet gentle.” She cleared her throat. “Got it,” she whispered.
“Try again.”
This time I let her take the reins and glide our hands along the wood. Her right hand shook a bit, causing the knife to get stuck.