Chapter Nine
The barn gleamed in quiet defiance of its weathered exterior.
Drywall sealed the walls up to the rafters, where rows of utility lights glared down from the beams. Cabinets lined the far end, pegboards above them bursting with every tool known to mankind.
Stacks of lumber leaned along the walls, and a few odd machines hummed and blinked and dutifully waited.
One corner hid beneath a drop cloth, mysterious and untouched.
“Well,” I drawled as Rhett came in behind me. “It’s… very clean.”
He shrugged. “My uncle liked a tidy space.”
“That explains a lot,” I muttered under my breath after he began to walk away.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Clearing my throat, I followed him to the wall on our left. “Have you ever thought to—I don’t know. Maybe throw some paint up? Or… a window?” The huge fluorescent lights made it feel a bit like being a bug under a magnifying glass in the sun.
Rhett paused beside a large panel of yellowish wood propped up beside him and ran his palm over the surface.
“The shop is functional. It doesn’t need to look pretty.
” Hands in his pants, he nodded toward the plank and looked at me.
“This is pine. It’s sturdy and durable, which is why it’s perfect for the booths.
We’re going to be making a lot of cuts today—the rest is fairly simple. ”
My lips pursed. “You want me to cut that?” The morning of near-death experiences flashed through my mind.
His laugh curled around me, a honeyed tone that I could get very used to hearing.
“You’ll be fine. It’s not hard.”
Rhett hauled the panels of wood to a table near the center of the workshop, the pieces taller and wider than even he was.
He’d clearly put too much faith in my dexterity.
The serrated blade sticking out from a panel of steel could not have been further from a pottery wheel.
Sure, I had cut my hands before on a project—but I was never at risk of losing a limb.
He hoisted the first plank onto the table with a grunt and retrieved a measuring tape from the shelf below. My mind continued to reel as he pulled out his phone and an orange pencil, dragging the tape to make the first measurement.
For a blessed moment, I thought he had forgotten about me.
“Come here,” Rhett murmured as he slid the pencil behind his ear.
Oh, great.
I leaned in, pretending not to, as he delved into a brief tutorial with the notes on his phone.
The sketches were supposed to be of the festival booths, but they looked more like something out of da Vinci’s notebook than a set of blueprints.
I knew he was an architect, but I hadn’t expected that kind of precision.
Every line appeared deliberate—alive, even.
“These are called guide rails,” he interrupted my thoughts, pulling two long, steel bars from the shelf. “You won’t need to worry about making a straight cut with these.”
Well, hopefully I hadn’t missed anything too important.
He carefully positioned the guide rails on either side of the panel. “I already made the measurements for you. This first one is fairly simple, so it’s a good time to learn,” Rhett added with a growing smile. “Then you can work on the saw while I start building.”
He didn’t leave me any time to argue. Before I could muster a protest, he had shoved a pair of bulky goggles in my hands. “See that tube on the right side? It should catch most of the dust. This is just a precaution.”
The “precaution” note didn’t exactly calm me. I slid the goggle’s strap over the back of my head and adjusted them over my eyes.
“How come I don’t get some like yours?” I propped a hand on my hip and glared at him.
Rhett pushed the slim, clear glasses up his nose, barely containing the smile as he looked down at me. “Would you believe me if I said that this is my only pair of these?”
“No,” I replied and turned back to the saw before the heat rose to my cheeks.
If he noticed, I couldn’t tell. He continued on with his tutorial as if there had been no interruption.
“This green button is how you turn it on. But this over here—” Rhett tapped a red paddle on the side of the table.
“Is the stop. If anything goes wrong, hit it with whatever you can, and it will instantly cut the power.”
Evidently, the time to wimp out had passed.
“Okay, let’s start,” he urged.
What was the worst that could happen? Actually, I didn’t want to think about that.
I stepped closer, fingers trembling as I set them on the wood. Rhett moved in behind me, his arms bracketing mine. His chest brushed my shoulder blade as he leaned close enough for me to catch the faint smell of after shave.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Just let the blade do the work.”
The saw whirred to life, vibrating up my arms. My throat went dry. I tried to focus on the pencil line in front of me, but all I could feel was his warmth, and the solidity of his calloused hands as they covered mine.
“Good,” Rhett said slowly, guiding the board through.
When it was over, he flipped the saw off. The sudden quiet rang in my ears.
“See?” His voice was softer now, almost pleased. “Not so hard.”
I risked a glance at him, and there it was—the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips. My pulse tripped over itself until I looked away.
When he let go, my arms still buzzed like live wires.
Truly commendable, the way I managed to focus under these conditions.
I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “That wasn’t bad.” The words tumbled out a little too loudly. “Actually, I think I liked it,” I added, staring at the piece of wood as a rush of adrenaline washed over me.
“That’s good. I’ll just do the next few with you, and then—”
“I’ve got it.” My voice sounded strangled as I cut him off. “I mean, I think I can handle it alone. That’s the best way to learn, right?” I tried to laugh, but I couldn’t meet his eyes.
Rhett didn’t push any further, instead silently marking the rest of the planks before gathering what was already cut. He didn’t seem to be concerned as he selected tools from the pegboard without so much as a glance.
For the first few cuts without him, my heart raced and my knees turned to gelatin.
Then I realized that the whir of the blade and the thrum of the table saw beneath my hands felt almost exactly like my pottery wheel.
My mind wandered to new designs for planters and vases that I hadn’t had the time to try, or the pressed flower technique I read about the other day.
Between Marigold’s and the festival, it never seemed like there was enough time to get into the studio.
But oh, how my fingers had been itching to make something.
Pressing the red lever, I was sure that no time had passed at all.
“Done already?” Rhett commented with a raised brow as he collected the last of the pieces. He traced his gloved finger across the most recent cut. “Good work, Georgie. I’m impressed.”
Heat clung to the air, thick as syrup. A small highway of sweat had formed down my spine, and my hair must’ve been half-matted, half-frizz-ball.
Of course, the developing ease between us didn’t help either.
Rhett seemed to be increasingly comfortable with me—which, albeit, was what I wanted—but every crinkly-eyed smile sent a fireball bursting in my chest.
If this was friendship, I was in serious trouble.
The goggles made a ridiculous suction noise when I ripped them off. “It wasn’t rocket science,” I replied, my lips lifting at the corners. “What else do you have for me? Hammers? Nails? Oooh, nail guns look interesting.”
Rhett’s face paled and he quickly shook his head. “No—ah, I mean… how about you take a break with something a little more tame for a while?”
The new project he assigned me involved several buckets of paint and a limited supply of brushes shoved in the corner like an after thought. He watched me as I put my hands on my hips and frowned at the tower of pails and the stack of signs. I sucked my teeth and finally met his gaze.
“You were going to make signs for the booths?”
A faint blush rose to his cheeks. “It was part of the project. They needed signs.”
“But you didn’t need to,” I quipped as a bubble of frustration grew. “I could’ve been in charge of this. Why didn’t anyone ask me?”
Rhett stared at me as if I spontaneously began speaking a foreign language. “You can do them right now,” he drawled, eyebrows stitching together.
I drew a long breath and fanned myself. Heat pressed in from every side. Rhett was too close, even with space between us. And he just kept doing things for me at the behest of people who didn’t think I could handle it all.
So, I rolled up my proverbial sleeves and got to work. They were in for a surprise.
Thankfully, lettering didn’t scare me. Every year, my grandmother had me paint a new Marigold’s sign—partly because they got battered by storms and the sea air, and partly because she insisted that each one was better than the last. I knew she had to say that. But it was still nice to hear.
The sign for Gulliver’s Books came first—Joe’s booth would have special editions as well as a clearance selection.
The latter was his one-time-a-year offer; he did not believe in sale sections on a regular day.
Using a scrap of wood I found in the corner while Rhett wasn’t looking, I created a makeshift palette and mixed a set of jewel tones.
I hadn’t realized how dialed in I was until Rhett’s voice resonated above me. I had no idea what he said, either, because I wobbled at the sound, from my crouched position and into the can of yellow paint.
“Rhett!” I yelled, lunging forward, but it was too late. A lake of paint had already formed on his previously spotless concrete floors.
Groaning, I dragged the can upright before it emptied completely. In my scramble to save it, I dipped my elbow and both my hands straight in. The air was sweltering now. With a deep grimace, I tipped my chin up.
Rhett looked at me, then at my dripping limbs, and finally pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Artistic choices?” I said weakly, paint splattering the floor further as I stood.
His lips twitched. “You’re a menace.”
“You did need some color in here.”
“Color,” he repeated flatly, though his eyes betrayed a sparkle. He crossed the space, pulled a rag from his back pocket, and dabbed at my arm. Yellow smeared carelessly onto his palms, his fingers brushing my wrist and lingering just a second too long.
For one searing moment, our gazes met. My head felt fuzzy. Rhett’s hands flexed at his sides. The room tilted—or maybe he did.
And the door swung open.
“Well, well, well,” a voice drawled.
I spun around, nearly tripping over the rag that had dropped on my shoes. Well, those weren’t white anymore. Janice waltzed through the doorway, and Frank trailed right behind her with a pie dish in his grip. Both of them wore teasing grins.
“Afternoon, kids,” Frank spoke as he approached. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
Janice’s eyes flicked from the paint on the floor, to my arms, to Rhett, who was now rapidly wiping the remnants of paint on his pants. Each attempt left a new streak, the vibrant yellow against his black work pants glaring like neon lights.
“Busy, huh?” she said in a sing-song voice. “That what they call it these days?”
I choked. “It’s not—oh no, we weren’t—”
Rhett saved the day and jumped in with, “Georgie spilled paint.”
“Sure she did,” Janice retorted with an exaggerated wink.
I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to breathe if it got much hotter in here.
Frank set the pie tin on the table saw. “Brought you apple, Everett. Figured you’d need a break.”
“Or a chaperone,” Janice added.
“Janice,” Rhett warned.
“Everett?” I parroted, paint-dripped arms dangling uselessly at my sides. Everett. That made more sense to me than a baby named Rhett.
Janice ignored us both completely. She leaned her elbows on the far end of the table saw and grinned at me. “You know, Georgie, it’s about time someone injected a little color in Rhett’s life.”
My jaw hinged open. Frank chuckled.
Rhett was already steering them toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Thanks for the pie. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t work too hard,” Janice sing-songed as the two were ushered out. “You two are just so darling!”
The door shut behind them.
Rhett ran a hand over his face. I stared down at the paint-stained concrete. The shade of red on my cheeks would be called Mortification, by Georgie.
In a daze, I mumbled, “Does Janice bring you a lot of pies?”
He groaned. “Too many.”
I laughed softly under my breath, the awkwardness still clinging like humidity. My gaze drifted toward the corner, where a drop cloth caught a shaft of sunlight through the barn doors and fluttered in the fan’s current. Curiosity urged me forward before I could think better of it.
“Hey, what’s under—”
“Nothing,” Rhett said too quickly.
Of course that only made me lift the cloth.
Underneath sat a set of furniture that didn’t belong in a barn—sleek lines, smooth edges, polish glossy enough to gleam in the fluorescent light. A dining chair with a graceful, slatted back. A small table, the surface transformed into a chess board with squares of dark and light wood.
“You made these?” I asked, though I already knew.
Rhett sidled up beside me and his hand closed over the drop cloth. “Just projects,” he muttered, pulling the fabric back over the top in a single, brisk movement. “Practice.”
“Practice?” I let out a soft laugh. “If this is practice, I’d hate to see your finished work.”
He gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes sliding away. “I don’t really show them.”
And that was the end of it. Conversation closed, like a door gently pushed shut.