Page 112 of One Wild Wish

“Get your lazy butt in here and check for yourself,” Nana bellowed back.

A moment later, Emmett snuck up behind her and planted a kiss on her cheek. “You’re scary when you’re bossy.”

She patted his ass. “Just keeping you in line. Speaking of which, have you found a nice man to settle down with longer than a week?”

“I’m having fun. Isn’t variety the spice of life?”

“For now, maybe. Eventually it’s the ingredient for a TV dinner cooked for one.”

An hour later, she sent me home with leftover meatloaf and the soap she sold at a local market. Apple spice, she called it.

Before long I was hunched over the dinner table in my workshop. It had been my project the past month, a stunning slab of tiger maple. Perfect width, its live edges rustic yet clean. I’d kept the legs simple and elegant. They allowed the top to shine. I sanded every inch methodically, working from 120-grit paper to 220.

Tonight was when the magic happened. My first coat of Tung oil. The astringent, barnyard smells burned my nostrils, and I said a silent thank you for the wide garage doors.

One of the best things I’d done since moving back to the area had been renting this space. Oakland was close enough to San Fran that I could be in the city in half an hour, but far enough to find an affordable place with a workshop. The apartment above was small and clean. All I needed for now. Finding financial stability drove me for a lot of years. It was only in the past couple I realized I’d been happier with less.

Having made good money in D.C. meant I could take my time now. Pay my rent by installing countertops or fitting new doors or replacing rotting wood decks on the fly, all while building a small inventory of handmade furniture. When I had my finances sorted, I’d source out a shop or two to sell my pieces.

My business—by me, for me, from the ground up.

One stroke of my brush, and the table’s colors flickered to life—sands and peaches and vanillas catching the light. I didn’t use stains or dyes, preferring to retain the natural wood grain. I moved my body with each long stroke.

Not sure what time I finished the first coat. It was always like this when I worked with wood. I’d lose myself. Forget my worries. I chuckled, thinking of the dirty jokes Ainsley could spin about me working with my “wood,” but man, did I love building things. The knowledge made me regret sticking with investment banking so long and giving my marriage more energy than it had deserved. I’d been nothing but restrained the past few years, and it was wearing on me.

Inside, I felt a little wild and desperate to break free. Itching to shed the past and seize my future. Which meant I should heed Nana’s advice and not let my failed marriage stop me from trusting my heart. Not let this Ainsley opportunity slip away.

The more I got to know Ainsley, the more she seemed like exactly who I wanted to date. She was easy to talk to and generous with her time. She could make a trucker blush with her dirty humor and worked hard to support her parents. She was also sexy as sin, her smoky voice and swaying hips more sensual than listening to Etta James. There was a chance I’d read Ainsley’s lack of interest wrong, my dating hiatus dulling my senses. Whatever the case, next time I saw her, likely two days from now, I’d toss my hat in the ring and ask her out.

7

Six-letter word for specifications that limit property usage.

Or embracing your crush’s (unfortunate) sexuality by redefining your relationship from friends to sexual confidants.

Z O N I N G

Ainsley

Today had been hairy. Not the kind where I got to run my fingers through Owen’s dusting of chest hair, as dreamy as that sounded. This day involved me actually wearing my respiratory mask while helping Nick cut insulation and push it into walls.

“How many of these caves do we have to fill?” I asked.

“Two more homes, and they’re called cavities.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Don’t kid a kidder.”

We went about our work.

I’d arrived late, stuffed a crap-ton of cavities , and was ready to call it a day. Owen had spent most of his time helping the electrician run wires, so lunch had been a solo endeavor. There was no one for me to nag about eating meat. No one to laugh with over Nick’s newly gelled moustache. I even had to face Lucifer alone, the rodent nattering at me from his grass throne.

Spending time with Owen’s unf self was challenging and mouth-watering and painful, but I missed him. I didn’t normally do picnic-table lunches with men. Especially not ones where we lay on our backs, the wind kissing our faces, not an inch of our bodies touching as we shared personal stories. Owen Time was as thrilling as touring an uncharted clothing shop, new treasures at every turn.

I craved my Owen Time. I also had to get my cravings for him under control.

Glad to be done for the day, I whipped off my hardhat and mask. The fresh air was cool and damp, gray clouds frowning down. A few raindrops would be a welcome refresher. I spied Owen’s fine behind poking out of the electrician’s van, the two men rummaging through equipment. A familiar longing tugged at my belly, desire curling in a tight knot. I had a serious problem. Was becoming quite a creeper, stealing lusty glances at my new gay friend. He made me feel fourteen again, those yearning-filled days spent dropping red-lipped kisses on Justin Timberlake’s Tiger Beat photos, no chance of ever dating my crush.