Page 259 of Manhattan Bossholes

I leaned against her workbench. “When I was a kid,” I said, “my grandfather used to take me out to his shop, and I’d get to pick a project. We’d spend all week working on it. I remember the first time he let me make a birdhouse all by myself. The roof was crooked, and the entry hole was too small for any actual birds to get inside, but I was so proud of myself.”

Natasha grinned as I recounted the memory.

“There was another time where we built an entire hutch to house the rabbit I had caught out in the woods. The thing slipped out the moment I opened the door to feed it.” I laughed. “I still remember Dee chasing the poor rabbit around the yard with baby Jimmy on her hip. Papa Davis got the whole thing on camera. I’m sure we’ve got the video somewhere.”

“Your grandfather sounds like a great man,” Natasha said.

“He was. Sweet and kind and so much fun. The staff at Saunders Furniture loved him, but he was his best self with his family. He always treated Dee like royalty, and he looked out for me and Jimmy.”

She chuckled softly.

“What is it?”

“Nothing…it’s just…I got started in woodworking because of my grandpa too. He was a freelance cabinetmaker, and he used to let me sit on a stool in his workshop and sand down the pieces. I remember being mesmerized, watching him transform a piece of wood. I’d sometimes get to go with him for the installation, and there was something so beautiful about seeing that transformation come full circle. Every time I finish a piece, I’m reminded of him. And of how much transformation I’m capable of.”

“I like that,” I said, feeling a bead of connection flow between us. Grandparents were special people, and it was clear we’d both cherished ours. She lifted a large board onto the workbench. “Need a hand with that?” I offered.

“Oh, uh…” She hesitated, then shrugged sheepishly. “I could actually use someone to brace the board, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have better places to be?”

I looked into her eyes. “Better than here?” I huffed. “If I did, I wouldn’t have offered.”

She ducked her head, pulling her safety glasses on as she picked up a jigsaw. “I need to cut the circular design drawn into the board. If you could sort of rotate it as you’re bracing it, that would be great.”

I nodded. “Sure.”

I braced the board with both hands, shifting it slowly as Natasha cut through the wood. When she’d finished the circular cut, she had smaller shapes she needed to cut out of the center.

“Maybe better if I stand over here,” I said, coming around beside her. “Board’s wobbling too much over there.”

“Thanks,” she said as I stood close enough to smell her perfume. Or was it her shampoo? Either way, it was damn intoxicating, and my heart sped as I imagined pressing my face to her hair and inhaling the scent. At that moment, I was aware of everything—the little bump in her nose, the dimple beneath her lips, the fluttering of her dark eyelashes. And judging by her sharp intake of breath and the flush that blossomed across her face, she was aware of me too.

My mind went back to the church, wondering again what would have happened if I had kissed her there. I hadn’t been able to forget her body pressed against mine. And judging from that picture I’d caught her drawing in her office days ago, her mind had traveled similar paths. If we both wanted this, would it really be so wrong to see where it might lead? God knew ignoring my feelings wasn’t doing a damn thing to make them go away. My heart thundered in my chest.

“Ah!” I cried as I put my hand down on the table.

Natasha gasped. “What happened?”

I lifted my hand. In my daydreaming, I’d accidentally put it down on her spare jigsaw blade, the serrated edge cutting into my palm. “Damnit!” I swore under my breath.

“You’re bleeding.” She removed her safety glasses and put the jigsaw down.

“Not much,” I said. It did hurt like a son of a bitch, though.

“I have a first aid kit,” she said, already walking away.

Ugh, how mortifying. Now she’d think I was no better than a child who didn’t know when to not touch things. “Don’t bother,” I grumbled. “It’s fine. Really.”

“Don’t bleed on the project!” she called over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes but curled my hand away from the wood, my palm throbbing.

“You don’t need stitches, do you?”

“It’s not that deep.” At least I didn’t think it was. “Seriously, I’ll go and get it checked out. You don’t have to worry.”