19. Sock? What Sock?
Sock? What Sock?
Blaze
“I’m not above wrestling a woman!” I call after Jo.
Her giggling form slips through the door to her room.
I’m only two steps behind her, and she’s out of her mind if she thinks that’s going to stop me from chasing her.
I lurch forward and catch her by the waist, whipping her around and reaching for her outstretched hand where she seems to think she can still keep the sock from me.
Tunnel vision has me locked in on the sock so hard that I don’t realize how close we are until I feel her breath on my lips.
And then she kisses me.
As soon as her mouth presses onto mine, that damn sock is the last thing I’m thinking about.
Instead, I think about how soft her skin is as I cup her face, and how I still have her caught in my embrace, pressed close enough that she’s standing with her feet between mine.
She hums with contentment, parting her lips for me and hooking her arms around my neck, one hand idly twisting a lock of my hair.
I can’t take it anymore, and a low grumble escapes me as I step forward, herding her toward her bed.
She doesn’t resist. If anything, she pulls me after her as we step again, hungrily licking and sucking at each other’s tongues.
She falls back when her knees meet the edge of the mattress, and I tumble after her, careful to keep my full weight supported on one arm, bent above her head.
She’s abandoned twirling my hair in favor of burying her whole hand against my skull, denying me an inch to retreat—which is fine by me.
She’s writhing torturously beneath me, arching off the bed to press into me.
I slide my palm from her waist down her leg, fisting the silk dress and hiking it up to her bare knee.
With a gentle squeeze, I coax her leg up to hook around my hip, then begin sliding my palm up her thigh, relishing her goosebumps as she shivers underneath me.
“Blaze,” she breathes, tucking a slender hand under the hem of my shirt. “Blaze, I—” But I don’t get a chance to hear what she’s planning to say. A loud crack pierces the air, followed by a resounding thud as the bed breaks under us.
“Are you okay?” I ask Jo, quickly standing up from the mattress-turned-ramp and pulling her to her feet.
“Bodily? I believe so. But what am I supposed to do about this?” She waves at the pile of splinters, voice breaking. “How am I to afford a new bedframe? We will both be sleeping on a lounge chair. I’ll have to drag up the one from the front room…”
“I can fix that!” I rush to say, pointing at the offending furniture. “I’m really good with wood!” I spin on my heel and walk toward the stairs, tucking my shirt into my trousers.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“I’m going to get new posts to fix the bed. I’m serious, I’m good with wood. You’ll never know it was broken when I’m done with it. That was a woodshop we passed this morning, down on the corner, right? They should have something I can use.”
“Let me fetch my coin purse,” Jo says after a moment. “If you insist, you’ll need a few pounds.”
“Fuck. I completely forgot about the fact that I’m flat broke here. I don’t want to take your money, Jo,” I grumble. While I’m not an overly proud man, dammit, I’m not a fucking freeloader.
“Either you take this and fix the bed,” she says, pressing a coin purse against my chest, “or you’ll be carrying up the settee for me and I’ll blame you daily for the dreadful quality of sleep I shan’t have.
” She has a knowing smirk on her face, like she already knows she’s won—she has, but I still don’t like it.
“Fine, wife, you win this round.” I concede and step closer. “I’ll be back.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, then plant a quick peck on her forehead. Disappointment stabs me in the gut when she winces, and I already know what she’s going to say.
“Blaze, we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have—that is,” she stammers, frantically brushing out her skirt.
“It’s okay, Jo, I know,” I tell her, because I do. “This isn’t real,” I add, voice barely over a whisper.
She finally meets my eyes, giving me a quick nod. I give a small smile, then go down the stairs.
“I need two six-inch posts, roughly eight inches long, as well as all this.” I tell the white-haired man behind the counter, gesturing to a hammer, a small handsaw, a few awls, and a midsized plane.
I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting when I had walked into this shop—maybe I’m too used to my time and expected it to look more like a predecessor to Lowe’s—but I was gobsmacked when I opened the door into one of my wettest hobby-dreams. Old foot-powered lathes, every possible size of chisel imaginable, long tables littered with mallets and bevels, augers here and saws there…
I must have spun in stunned circles for ten minutes before the shopkeeper asked if I was lost.
If he only knew.
“You need a what now?” the man asks, leaning over the counter and turning an ear toward me.
“Uh, a post, oak if you have it, about yay thick.” I hold my hands up to mime the width. “By about yae long?” I gesture to indicate how long the post should be. “It’s for repairing bedposts.”
“Ah!” he says, then raises an eyebrow conspiratorially. “Should I dig up some walnut slats as well? A ride like that is bound to need a cradle,” he cackles.
I swear, this time blows my mind—the women are clueless and the men all joke like teenagers.
“Ha, thank you, sir, but I’ll just be needing the posts for now,” I reply awkwardly.
“Well enough, son. Can you pull the post down, though? I’m afraid I’m no good at dragging down the hard woods at my age.” He shuffles along the counter and beckons for me to follow him.
“Don’t you have an apprentice or anyone to help you?” I ask as he leads me into the back of the shop. Shelves line every wall, and several stacks of various types of wood are set in the middle of the space. What I wouldn’t give for a shop like this to tinker around in.
“Just me, I’m afraid. Lost the previous lad to consumption a year before last and haven’t found anyone with half a brain to replace him—God rest his soul.” He points up to a row of oak posts, then steps aside so I can ease one down.
“That’s a shame—both the consumption and the fact that you’re running the place alone.”
“Well, unless you know anyone who wants the job, I’ll keep plugging along until the reaper comes,” he says with a laugh.
“What about me, sir?” It’s perfect—if he hires me on, I would be helping him, doing a job I really enjoy and, most importantly, I could help Jo cover the costs of keeping me around.
“You?” The man stops and turns to peer at me over his glasses.
“Why not? I’m no master, but I like to make and fix things in my free time.” I shrug, not thinking I could tell him about the four years of wood shop I took in high school, so this would have to do.
“Well,” he sighs. “I suppose if you’re going to be my new apprentice, you should call me Albion and drop the ‘sir’ nonsense. When can you start?”
I’m smiling like an idiot as I walk into the modiste, one perfectly cut post in each hand, a bag of tools slung over my shoulder and Jo’s coin purse, no less empty, in my pocket.
“Honey, I’m home!” I holler, then cringe. I probably should have checked to see if anyone else was in here before yelling.
“There you are!” Jo exhales in relief, jogging from the back room. “What took you so long? I was starting to worry something happened.”
I hold up the posts, grinning from ear to ear. “I got some hard wood for you.”
She just blinks at me.
I deflate slightly. “Josephine, darling, I wish you understood my dick jokes.”
“Maybe you can start explaining them to me?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “First off, who is Dick?”
I shake my head and laugh. “Later, wife. I have good news,” I say, digging the coin purse from my pocket and handing it to her.
“It feels as though you didn’t spend any of it.” She squints at me.
“Because I didn’t.” I smile broadly, straightening to my full height.
“Blaze Lynyrd Hollows, did you steal that wood?” she gasps.
“No!” I frown. “Do you really think I would rob poor Alby? I got a job and I start tomorrow.” I guide her upstairs as I explain the details of mine and Albion’s agreement: I’ll work off the cost of the oak and the bag of simple tools, and then he’ll pay me a weekly wage.
“Why on earth would you find employment?”
“Listen, I’ve been going crazy cooped up in here—no offense—and I have a little workshop back home, so it’s no different than something I would do anyway.
With me living here, it’s twice—thrice—the food, you’re clothing me and funding all of these absurd attempts to get me home…
let me bring in some income. I want to take some of the burden off your shoulders and honestly, I want to do this for me too.
” After a silent moment, Jo surprises me by agreeing.
Jo pretends to read where she sits on my chaise, and I pretend not to notice while I repair the bed. It seems she’s just learned it’s a straight shot from there to here—perfect eyeline from where we both slept—but of course that’s not news to me.
I finally set down my tools and drag myself over to flop down opposite her. “That should hold well enough, but to be safe, maybe don’t go jumping on it.”
“Well, there goes my evening plans.” She sighs dramatically, leaning on the arm of the seat and stretching her legs out before putting her feet in my lap. I don’t even realize I’ve grabbed and started rubbing her soles until she groans. “On second thought, this is better. No jumping.”
I laugh and lean my head against the wall, the short back of the lounge chair not exactly accommodating for this type of lounging.
“Will you tell me about your time?” she asks a few minutes later. I open my eyes, not even sure when I had shut them. The book she was reading is closed in her lap, and she’s studying me.
“I’ll tell you anything, Jo. What do you want to know?”