7. Keith #2
That earned a small chuckle from her, and I let the bell-like sound chime against my ego. I may not have been the cleverest, or the most handsome, and certainly not the wealthiest, but making people laugh felt like an accomplishment worth being proud of.
“Yes, I imagine a son bravely battling the never-ending war against centrifugal forces weighs heavily upon any parental figure.”
“Centrifugal? Now that’s a five-dollar word.”
“Is it?” she drawled, her accent becoming more pronounced. “Well, that and a two-dollar-off coupon will get you an overpriced drink at Starbucks.”
“Starbucks? If I wanted to lose an arm and a leg on coffee, I would drop my thermos into one of these machines and try to reach after it while it’s running.”
Now she laughed fully, and I liked that sound even more. There was an easiness to it, and my pride inflated at the evidence that I was entertaining her. Because if I was being entertaining, then surely I couldn’t be annoying or awkward, right?
“Dismemberment seems to be a running theme in your life. Is that something I should be worried about, or just a risk of the trade?”
“Afraid it’s basically a requirement for most of us blue-collar folks. The more you talk about something, the less scary it is.”
When I first started woodworking as a teen, there were entire machines I didn’t dare use.
If I’d been injured, it would have seriously complicated my mother’s life because she’d drop everything to take care of me.
Perhaps I should have been more concerned about actually losing a limb, but whatever.
Priorities. Never been very good at them.
The woman nodded sagely as though it wasn’t strange to talk so casually about life-altering injuries. “Makes sense. We have our own kind of humor like that in the office, but it mostly revolves around computers blue-screening and getting hacked.”
“Hah, I can imagine that would throw off your day.”
“Probably not as much as losing a whole limb would, but yes.”
I chuckled lightly. I wanted to say, for professional reasons, that we weren’t flirting, but I couldn’t deny the vibe between us.
Please God, if you’re there, do not let me be one of those delusional men who thinks a woman is hitting on him when she’s just being polite.
“By the way, I apologize, I’m not the best with names. You mentioned it yesterday, but I was distracted by the improvised attack missile you launched.”
“Oh! It’s Olivia. Nice to fully meet you, Keith.”
The way she said my name wasn’t fair. Maybe I should have told her to call me Mr. Insrym. Then again, the idea of her looking up through her lashes at me while murmuring that in her slightly raspy and musical voice was a little too appealing.
“Nice to meet you as well.”
I leaned forward, shifting my weight with the intent of posting my bulk against her workstation, like I was cool and effortless or something. And maybe I might have been, if I didn’t miss it entirely with my hand, my palm hitting air instead of solid wood.
Uh-oh.
I toppled to the side, and it was far too easy for me to envision myself eating total shit on the ground in front of the woman I was sort of trying to impress.
I braced myself for the embarrassment that was going to hurt way more than the impact.
But then two hands gripped the front of my thick overalls, and the next thing I knew, I was jerked upright.
What the hell?
I paused, trying to recalibrate. Olivia had caught me. Not only had she caught me, but she got me onto my feet without so much as breaking a sweat.
“Whoops,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over my chin.
Time screeched to a halt.
It was just the two of us, closer than we should be, those amber eyes of hers wide and a bright blush covering her stately nose, her hands still clutching my overalls.
She really was fucking beautiful.
“Thanks,” I managed to say before it got too awkward. “You’ve got quite the grip on you.”
Her blush intensified as she let go of me. “Uh, don’t mention it.”
“Are you into MMA? Do you lift?”
She chuckled, but it sounded nervous. “No, not really.”
“You’re quite strong.”
“It’s not a big deal. Don’t mention it.”
I didn’t understand why she seemed embarrassed by her strength, but it wasn’t my business to know. I’d always been attracted to powerful women, but perhaps she was used to people putting her down for that.
If that was the case, it was a terrible shame.
I was way too deep in my own head, so between that and Olivia’s obvious embarrassment, the conversation between us that had been flowing so easily dried up.
Damn.
Until, of course, I heard a familiar clearing of a throat.
“Yes, Amanda?” I said, not quite tearing my gaze away from her friend (did they actually know each other?).
“Olivia has some questions she’d like to ask after class. Ya know, if you’re free and all.”
Was I crazy or was the fashionista being my wingman?
Or… even crazier, was she being Olivia’s wingman?
“Sure,” I replied in a totally cool and not awkward at all way. “Hang around and we can chat while I clean up.”
“Sounds great,” Olivia murmured, her face growing pinker by the second.
I hurried off to teach the rest of the lesson, and thankfully, I was able to get my mind back on track to explain the power tools.
While there might be something going on between me and the beautiful woman in the back of my class, that something wouldn’t go anywhere if someone drilled through their palm.
Safety first, always.
***
“So, you said you have some questions?” I asked as I wiped down the workstation tables, grateful I had something to do with my hands.
Technically I wasn’t a professor, and Olivia was an adult and not an actual student like Amanda, but I couldn’t help the thrill that licked up my spine at the illicit ideas that my subconscious was whispering to the back of my mind.
“I do!” She was smiling as widely as she had when she entered. She hopped up on the closest stool to me, and I made a pointed effort to slide my eyes away and not focus on her… jiggle physics. “I was hoping to ask you some questions about your wood.”
“What?” I said far too quickly before remembering that I was a woodworker and it was only natural for her to ask me about lumber.
Still, her phrasing could use some work.
“What about it?”
“Why did you choose yellow birch for me?” She gave me that quizzical look again as if I was the strange one for reacting the way I did to her question.
Wait a minute, she wasn’t purposefully using innuendos, was she?
“I mean, I assume you weren’t actually calling me a bitch.”
“Of course not!”
“Right, that’s what I thought. So, why the yellow birch? What properties made you decide it was best for my silly little mug?”
“Well, your mug-tankard hybrid isn’t silly, I think it’s quite sweet.
And I figured there were three woods you could use: yellow birch, hard maple, white oak.
But maple can be a bit more expensive, and although white oak is a sort of gold standard for beer barrels, I thought the yellow birch’s close-grained structure and density would be better.
Especially since it has good shock resistance in case, say, an older relative dropped it repeatedly. ”
She smiled again, and I was utterly dazzled. “You put so much thought into it for a quick conversation.”
“It was less deep thought and more a force of habit at this point.”
“From teaching so many classes?”
I wasn’t sure why this gorgeous, sweet woman was so interested in my process, but I was flattered.
“From woodworking in general. Every project I make has a lead-up process where I decide on details, and the biggest one is what wood I want to use. I consider things like weight, cost, availability, grain-size, absorbency, hardness… I could go on and on.”
“Why don’t you then? I’m not in a rush. Are you?”
My brain sputtered a bit, and it felt like being in high school where I never knew what to do when I was around a woman who impressed me. Come on, I was a grown man now. I was nearly forty!
“I am not,” I said slowly. “But I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than listen to me drone on about all the qualities of different wood types.”
“I kind of like how you talk about wood.”
Now that had to be intentional. “Do you?” I asked. “Either you gained a new special interest, or you’re trying to flatter me.”
“Perhaps I have gained a special interest, but I don’t think it’s woodworking.”
I had to be hallucinating, because there was no way she was hitting on me, right? Once more, that worry of being an asshole creep who couldn’t have a woman be friendly with him without being completely gross about it welled up in me.
What if I’m misinterpreting?
“Ah, I see. Sixty Minutes–style interviews with generic people then?”
There was that look again, the one where it felt like she was gazing into the depth of my mind to puzzle something out. Normally that would be incredibly invasive. But with her, a woman I hardly knew, it felt like I was being seen properly.
“Do you think you’re generic?” she asked, and it didn’t feel like a gotcha. Nothing she said did. In fact, it came across as if she was trying to understand me.
“Well, I’m certainly nothing special,” I said on instinct, because that was the truth, wasn’t it? The world was full of guys like me: recently reformed mama’s boys who were behind on all of life’s milestones with no idea how to bridge the gap, or even if it could be bridged.