Page 25 of Unspoken Love

Faye leaned in, brows drawn, and took the pencil from his hand.

“I still love that design,” she said, glancing around quickly before sketching something else. “And if you add an L-shape here, you could add a bank of lower drawers there, which would be way more functional than cabinets.”

He watched her face light up with each idea. “You’ve thought a lot about this,” he said, amused.

She laughed. “Yeah, since being in Max and Juliette’s kitchen, I know what works and what doesn’t. What they missed.”

He smiled, watching her as she doodled little symbols for pendant lights above the imaginary island. “Have you ever thought about doing this for a living?” he asked.

She paused, the pencil tip hovering. “Yeah. Once or twice. It just never seemed realistic.”

“Why not?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Blake Jordan runs a successful interior design company in town or you could work with the Parker brothers. Then again, you could always go into business for yourself.”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly. “Life got in the way, I guess. You know, school and health stuff. And now…” She waved vaguely toward the front of the house. “I’m in Pride, working for you, dreaming about helping you tear apart your house and rebuild it. Unless you want me to quit?”

“Point taken.” He chuckled. “I love that you’re helping me out,” Nate said, his voice lower now. “This, tonight. It’s kind of perfect. I want—” He shook his head. “I need your input. I want to make this place perfect.”

Her gaze met his, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she nudged the pencil toward him. “Well, I don’t think you can mess it up. You’ve got solid bones in this place. You just need time to determine what works as a good design for each space.”

He grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I asked you over.”

She didn’t answer but instead went back to drawing out the space. “You could add French doors here,” she said and took the pencil again.

He watched her sketching on the graph paper, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration, and he felt that tug again—low in his chest, subtle and steady, like an anchor dropping.

This wasn’t new.

He’d felt it for weeks now. Every time she laughed at one of his lame jokes. Or when she looked at him like she saw him. Not the guy who ran the Brew-Ha-Ha, not Juliette’s younger brother, not the charming flirt that he’d perfected around town—but the real version of himself. The quieter one. The guy who still sometimes didn’t have it all figured out.

He hadn’t wanted this to happen.

From the beginning, he’d told himself that they would just be friends. She was Max’s sister. She was recovering, adjusting, rebuilding her life. He was supposed to be the supportive friend, the one who helped her settle in, the safe person who didn’t make things complicated.

But she was complicating everything with that sexy laugh of hers.

He’d dated other women. Hell, he’d more than dated. He’d been in love, or at least thought he had. Once or twice. But this—what he felt around Faye—was nothing like before. There was no pressure to perform or impress anyone. She didn’t play games like all those other women had. She didn’t make him feel like he had to hide any part of who he was.

She made him feel—grounded.

And that scared the hell out of him.

Because when she smiled at him like she just had—soft, grateful, completely unaware of what she was doing to his insides—he didn’t just want to kiss her. He ached to.

He wanted to tuck that loose strand of her hair behind her ear and lean in close, feel her breath catch, feel her heartbeat race under his fingertips. He wanted to know if her lips tasted like the root beer she’d just sipped, if kissing her would feel as natural and right as everything else between them had.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because he wasn’t just risking his heart—he’d be risking their friendship. And he didn’t know if he could live with himself if he hurt her in the end.

So instead, he gave her a smile, like his heart racing at the thought of kissing her was no big deal. Like he wasn’t dying inside. Like every word out of her mouth didn’t make him fall harder.

“Thanks for helping me dream this up,” he said, his voice a little rougher than he wanted.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Of course. Dreaming is the best part.”