CHAPTER 3
GINGER
He holds the stud finder against the wall, slowly dragging it across the surface until it lets out a short beep. He marks the spot lightly with his pencil, then continues down the line.
I tilt my head. “Is that thing really necessary?”
“Unless you want your shelves crashing down in the middle of the night.” He gives me a quick, teasing glance. “Yes. It’s necessary.”
I cross my arms, watching him with mild skepticism as he moves the stud finder again. “I guess I figured you for a guy who’d just wing it.”
“Sure,” he says, tapping the wall where he just marked. “If you want your mugs shattered on the floor and me banned from your shop.”
“Fair point,” I admit.
“You always want to screw at least one bracket into a stud, more if you can manage it. They’re the strong points behind the drywall. Everything else gets an anchor.”
I arch a brow. “An anchor?”
“Plastic or metal sleeves that you push into the wall first. They expand behind the drywall when the screw goes in. Helps distribute the weight so it doesn’t rip out.”
I make a face. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Not as much work as patching holes and sweeping broken glass.”
“Okay, I’m convinced.”
He grins and continues measuring, making small pencil marks where each bracket will go. I watch the efficient way he moves, tape measure snapping back, level in one hand, pencil in the other. It’s all so competent. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before.
“Here,” he murmurs, handing me the pencil. Our fingers brush, and I pretend not to notice the jolt that races up my arm.
He lifts the first bracket to the wall, lining it up with the marks. “Grab that level and hold it steady, right there.”
I hurry to do as he says.
“You got it?”
“Yep.” I step in close, near enough that my shoulder almost grazes his arm. “You’re just barely off.”
He adjusts the bracket with a tiny smirk. “Impossible. I never mess up when someone’s watching.”
I smirk right back. “So, you only perform well under pressure?”
“I thrive under pressure.” His eyes catch mine, and for a second, we’re just standing here, bracket in his hand, level in mine, practically nose to nose. “Or haven’t you noticed?”
My laugh comes out as more of a breath. “I’ve noticed youthinkyou thrive under pressure.”
He drives the first screw in with a sharpzip, the sound reverberating through the quiet shop. I hold the level steady as he secures the second screw into the stud.
“Next one goes here,” he says, sliding over a bit and checking for another stud. When he doesn’t find one, he sets the bracket aside and picks up a wall anchor. “No stud here, so we go with Plan B.”
“You make it sound like this is a battle strategy.”
He winks. “Every good wall project is a battle against gravity.”
We fall into a rhythm. He finds studs, drills in anchors, and aligns the brackets. I hand him screws, double-check the level, and try not to notice how natural working side by side like this feels. Like this is a regular Sunday night thing.
While we’re setting the second shelf, I reach across him for the pencil on the worktable. My arm brushes his back.
