I dropped my hand and stepped back to give him some space. His shoulders relaxed.
“You shaved,” I said, using all my genius investigative skills as a journalist to break the tension.
“Oh. Yeah.” He ran a hand over his chin. “It’s been known to happen.”
He tucked his head, cheeks flushing, and stepped to open the bed of the truck.
I followed him, even though he hadn’t asked me to stay. He probably wanted me to head back to Little Cabin to keep the unspoken space between us. Where did this fit in his list of rules? He didn’t explicitly say I couldn’t be nosy. Well, he had, but I was choosing to ignore that.
I wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t a little curious about the massiveshape hidden under a bright blue tarp.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He jumped to find me standing right behind him, peering on tiptoes over his shoulder. He also expected me to go back to my place.
He turned to face me, and I smiled widely. Sometimes, it helped disarm people. He scowled.
Well, damn.
“Work stuff,” he said, briefly meeting my gaze before glaring back at his truck.
In the sun, his hazel eyes looked lighter than the last time we talked. There was a sparkle of excitement in them as he glanced back to the mystery tarp.
“What work stuff?” I asked. “What do you do?”
He stiffened, shoulders tense. “Aren’t you on a deadline?”
“Always. What is that?” I asked again.
He sighed and rightfully decided that I was like Ripley when she was in search of a cozy spot—not to be distracted from what I wanted. Eventually, he said, “Hopefully, it’s my next piece. There’s a little bit of root rot, but I’m cautiously optimistic.”
I came to stand by his side, taking it as an invitation. “Piece?”
His elbow brushed my arm, and he shuffled a step away. “Yeah. I do woodwork. Make sculptures.” He flipped the corner of the tarp up to reveal the gnarled and dirt-covered root system of a massive wooden stump. He dropped it back and shot me a look. “Excuse me.”
“Oops, sorry.” I backed up, a little stunned and very much inthe way. He was anartist? A sculptor, more specifically. A million more questions split off in all directions to take root in my mind—pun intended.
As if it were nothing more than a package of warehouse paper towels, Levi wrapped his arms around the whole massive lump and lifted it. Muscles in his forearms, biceps, and shoulders all engaged, flexing with the momentum as he leveraged it out of the truck with a masculine grunt. A sound that I would not be forgetting any time soon.
Today, I learned that forearms with popping veins are a breathtaking sight to see in real life.
“So this is where you go all day? You’re hunting for wood?” I asked, proud of myself for not making a juvenile joke. “A wood hunter,” I said with no extra emphasis at all.
He looked at me a second too long, eyes narrowed in skepticism like he, too, was waiting for a joke.
“Some days.” He walked, legs wide, leaning slightly back as he struggled toward the garage door. That had to weigh as much as two of me. I mean, he really could just throw me over his shoulder without even breaking a sweat. You know, just for measurement of strength’s sake. Not that I was thinking about that.
“Do you often hunt for wood?” I asked innocently.
I really tried to keep it together.
He didn’t respond, but the silence was telling.
“I, myself, appreciate a good piece of wood,” I said.
He stopped as we reached the garage and gave me a blank stare.
“Not every day does life deliver a fine piece of girthy, hard?—”
