Page 37 of The Turning of the Tables

I took a close-up picture and sent it to him.

“Well, you absolutely fucked up that leg,” he remarked.

“The chair’s too,” I told him, only partially kidding. My knee was already swelling from the way I’d landed. It hadn’t been graceful.

“Are you okay?” he asked, then, and I thought there might have been actual concern in his voice, which made my stomach flutter again.

“I’ll recover,” I replied, turning the comment into a quip so he wouldn’t think I’d actually hurt myself. I’d be fine. In a few days and with the help of some Aleve. Assuming I didn’t do anything else catastrophically stupid.

“I’d hope so. Otherwise you should call an ambulance, not a carpenter.” I couldn’t quite read the tone in his voice. Maybe warm? Maybe worried? I didn’t know him well enough, which was a pretty good reminder that this man was not a potential romantic partner. I didn’t really know him, at least not in any real way other than biblically.

“How do I get a new chair leg?” I asked him, a little annoyed at how pathetic I sounded.

“You ask really nicely and the carpenter on the phone will make you one,” he replied.

“I—that—I didn’t mean—” I definitely hadn’t texted him to gethimto make me a new chair leg. I’d just hoped he could tell me what I needed to buy one.

“Consider it a thank-you.”

“Elliot—”

“Let me do this, Seth.” God, the way he said my name made my knees weak. Weaker, anyway. My knees are shit—one more than the other, but both shit.

“I can pay?—”

“Send me your address, dumbass,” came the response. “And send me a picture next to your hand so I can tell what color to stain it. And measure the leg and send me that, too.”

“Elliot—”

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” he told me. “Either you send me what I asked for, or I will send you endless chair legs until you beg me to stop.”

My whole neck and face were bright red, but at least he couldn’t see that. “I—thanks,” I said, finally, giving up.

“Good,” he pronounced. There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was absolutely wicked. “I was wondering if there was any way for me to send you my wood long-distance.”

I gaped at the phone. I know we’d started with wood-related misinterpretations, but this was very clearly a come-on.

“Nothing?” he asked, sounding amused.

I swallowed. “You can send me wood anytime you like,” I replied, trying for flirty banter and feeling like a complete awkward failure.

“Can I?”

“Uh huh.” I am so awkward.

His voice dropped. “The memory of you coming apart for me is what keeps me up at night,” he said, and I had to lean heavily against the kitchen counter because all the blood left my head and went somewhere considerably lower in my body.

“Sorry?” was all I managed.

He laughed, deep and throaty and incredibly sexy. “I’m not.”

“Then me neither.”

“What keeps you up at night, Seth?”

The blush that had heated my face had spread over what felt like my whole body. Did I want to play this game? I’d been trying so hard to stop thinking about him, even though I’d failed miserably. I didn’t know if my heart could take it… but I didn’t want to stop.

I swallowed. “How you fucked me so hard I could feel it in my teeth.”