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He powers down the saw, and the room falls into a sudden hush. The only sound is our breathing and the faint creaking of the old wooden building settling in the Texas heat. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of sawdust on his forehead. It's oddly endearing.
"With you around, my wood is all I can concentrate on." His voice rumbles deep and low as he steps closer, the smell of cedar and man wrapping around me.
"Ryan—" The word is barely a whisper, caught somewhere between a warning and a plea. He's close now, close enough that I can see tiny gold flecks circling the blue.
"Jules," he mimics my tone, one side of his mouth quirking up.
But before anything else can be said, before the space can shrink any further between us, Rusty barrels into the shop. His paws clatter on the wooden floor, and his body wiggles with unbound energy as he skids to a stop beside us.
"Rusty! Slow down there, champ," Ryan chuckles, bending to ruffle the dog's fur. Rusty's tail thumps against my leg, dragging me back to the present moment—a moment that somehow includes laughter and a big, goofy dog vying for attention.
"Looks like someone wants to join the party," I say, hesitantly reaching down to give the eager pup the ear scratches he's so clearly desperate for. He’s soft, and the dog just sits there and lets me pet him. He doesn’t show any signs of aggression towards me. Maybe this dog is alright, and I can trust him not to attack me.
"Can't blame him," Ryan says, straightening up and looking at me with something warm and playful in his gaze. "The company here is hard to resist."
I laugh, and suddenly the room isn't just filled with sawdust and the lingering tension of what might have been—it's lighter, brighter, and for a fleeting second, I let myself forget about deadlines and dollar signs.
Rusty, in a whirlwind of fur and enthusiasm, darts around the wood shop, the leash trailing behind him like a rogue comet. I can't help but giggle as his energy fills the room, infectious and chaotic.
"Rusty, watch out for—"
Too late. The leash snags on the corner of an unfinished cedar chest, sending a stack of carefully sorted veneers toppling like wooden dominoes. They hit the ground with a series of clacks and thuds that echo off the high ceilings.
"Oops," I murmur, my hand flying up to cover my mouth, stifling the laughter threatening to bubble over.
Ryan just stands there, a half-smile tugging at the corners of his lips, not even flinching at the miniature disaster unfolding in his sanctuary. He bends down, unhooks the leash from its wooden trap, and begins to restack the veneers with a practiced ease.
"Why is Rusty wearing a leash when he can run around freely?" I tease, leaning against a workbench, still struggling to calm my laughter.
"Ah, Jules, if I recall correctly, you're the one who suggested Rusty might need reigning in," he playfully reminds me, shooting a quick wink in my direction before returning his attention to the mess.
"Right, the 'no dogs running wild' policy," I say with a nod, remembering my own words. "But in my defense, I didn't anticipate the 'hilarious aftermath' clause."
"Life is full of surprises," Ryan quips, his grin now fully formed as he surveys the minor chaos his four-legged friend has caused.
"Indeed it is," I agree, watching him work, admiring how even in the midst of upheaval, he moves with such care and purpose. I realize, not for the first time, that this man can handle any kind of mess—with or without a leash.
"Okay, okay," I say through my laughter, waving a dismissive hand at the remnants of chaos Rusty has left in his wake. "You can unleash the beast. Officially." My smile widens as I watch Ryan's shoulders shake with silent chuckles.
"Finally," he says, unclipping the leash with a click that seems to echo through the woodshop. The leather strap falls to the floor with a soft thud.
No sooner is Rusty free than he barrels toward me, an ecstatic blur of fur and slobber. His tongue, a warm and wet flag of victory, slaps across my cheek as I burst into a fresh round of giggles.
"Rusty, down boy!" But it's no use. I'm already caught in the whirlwind of his affection, my face a canvas for his doggy kisses.
"Good lord, you're worse than a toddler with an ice cream cone," I laugh, my hands buried in the thick ruff of his neck, scratching behind his ears the way he obviously likes.
"Looks like someone's happy to be off the leash," Ryan observes, leaning against the workbench with arms crossed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.
"Yep, and so is Rusty," I quip back, unable to contain the warmth blooming in my chest as I share this light-hearted moment with Ryan—and his overly enthusiastic dog.
Chapter 11
Ryan
There’s a noise of metal hitting the floor in front of me, making me look up from measuring a piece of wood to see what’s going on. My gaze finds Julia a few strides away, just outside the barn doors. She's got that concentrated look on her face, brows furrowed, lips pursed. The sun catches her red hair like it's trying to ignite a flame.
"Need some help with that?" I ask, retracting the tape measure, already heading towards her.
