“What’s this?” She motions to the clothes.
“Reckoned you’d want something clean to wear.”
“Oh, thank you.” She takes the pile, tucking them under her arm. “I was just going to wear what you gave me last night.”
I grunt. “It’s nothing.”
I’m not doing it to be nice—it’s a practical decision. If she stays warm, she won’t wear that skimpy sleep set again, and my self-control might stand a fighting chance.
Noelle’s eyes twinkle as she smiles. “Regardless, I’m grateful.” She ducks her head, darting around me toward the bathroom.
Once the door clicks shut behind her, I go back to the kitchen to start on a fresh batch of pancake batter. I don’t want Noelle to taste her cooking and feel bad for serving it. At least one of us deserves a proper breakfast, and it should be her since she’s had to put up with me since she got here. It’s another practical choice, not a noble gesture.
After tending to the animals in the barn, I retreated to my workshop located behind the cabin. It’s a one-room building I use for woodworking with sawdust covering the floor, shelves lined with planes and chisels, and the scent of pine lingeringpermanently in the air. There’s a workbench set up in the middle, cluttered with my current project—a nearly finished rocking chair for my friend Casey and his wife Amy.
Casey’s been my friend since high school. He manages High Noon, the honky-tonk I own in town. It used to be a barn for milk cows, but when the local dairy farm went out of business twenty years ago, I bought the place and turned it into Pine Haven’s top attraction.
Last month, when I stopped by to do payroll, Casey was looking online for a rocking chair to get Amy for Christmas. They’re expecting their first baby, and she wants a handcrafted rocking chair to match the woodland theme of their nursery. The prices were so absurd that I offered to build one. Usually, I sell the furniture I make at the consignment store in town, but I enjoy the occasional special project.
Although this one is bittersweet, a reminder of everything I wanted but don’t have. I always dreamed of having a wife and a bunch of kids of my own. I once believed my ex and I would have it all, but lately, I’ve accepted the possibility of being alone forever, watching friends and acquaintances create the life I wanted while I stand by empty-handed.
I pause my sanding when there’s a tentative knock on the door. Glancing out the window, I realize darkness has settled over the sky, and I’ve spent the whole afternoon out here.
“Come in,” I holler.
Noelle pokes her head inside. She’s practically swallowed by one of my coats and wearing boots I’d let her borrow earlier, for when she had to go outside since she didn’t pack any practical footwear.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” she says softly.
She is, but I swallow the retort.
“It’s fine. What’s up?” I ask.
She holds up a bowl covered with tinfoil. “The timer went off for the chili you had in the crockpot. I had a bowl, and it was delicious. Figured you might be hungry too since you’ve been in here all afternoon, so I brought you some.”
My annoyance at being interrupted eases at the gesture. She didn’t have to brave the cold to bring me dinner, but she did it anyway.
Because she’s not a jaded asshole with a chip on her shoulder.
“Thanks. You can put it over there.” I motion to the rolling cart against the wall.
She nods, placing the chili where I asked, but lingers in the room.
“Did you need something else?”
She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Honestly, the cabin is too quiet. I don’t have service, so I can’t work or stream a holiday playlist, and I can only do so much reading before growing restless. I was hoping I could hang out with you while you work.” She hesitates, shooting me a sidelong glance before adding, “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
I highly doubt that.
Noelle is curious by nature and admitted she doesn’t handle silence well. Not to mention, I don’t usually let anyone in my workshop. It’s where I come when the noise in my head is too loud, and I let my hands do the thinking. There’s a peace that comes with transforming raw wood into a tangible object that calms me like nothing else.
I motion to the metal tool chest in the corner closest to me. “Take a seat.”
As Noelle passes my workbench, she pauses beside the rocking chair lying on its side. Her fingers trace the headrest where I’ve carved a fox curled in a bed of leaves.
“Shep, this is beautiful,” she says, almost reverently. “Every detail is perfect. Do you make furniture for a living?”
“No, it’s a hobby.” I set aside my sanding pad and wipe my hands on my jeans.
