“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 expectedthatkind 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 chestbrushed 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 feltalmostexactly 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 tomakesomething.
