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He pulls back, humor dancing in the gray of his irises. “Your table?”
I nod. Grin. Turn back to the coffee table, and my now lit-up laptop, wrapping the throw around me. “I messaged a woman about a massive round table on the For Sale in Clua page.”
The sofa dips when he sits down beside me, shoulder to shoulder, his elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward. “Why are you buying a secondhand table?” He cocks his head. “Agreensecondhand table.”
A little buzz of something takes hold at the base of my skull scattering my thoughts again. He didn’t leave. I bite my lip. Blink until my thoughts catch on again. “It’s solid wood under all that paint. And cheap. Perfect for the restaurant.” I turn back to my laptop and type back a quick reply confirming pick up, then sit back.
“Cheap?” His forehead creases. He doesn’t know about the money, or the upcycling, or any of it.
Uncertainty about sharing this with him, steals my smile. I don’t want to ruin this. Don’t want him to look at me with disbelief. To question whether I know what I’m doing. Whether I’m able.
But then it’s better to know now than later.
“The grant I got from the bank wasn’t as much as I was expecting. I’ve had to shake things up. Cut costs.”I click the For-Sale page closed revealing my Pinterest board. “Upcycling and re-jigging my budget is the only option I have left if I want to open this year.”
His brow lowers as he takes in the papers scattered over the table for the first time. He picks up one and scratches his beard, his gaze moving over it. “I can get you a better deal than this in the timber yard.”
“You can?”
“I can.”
I grin wide and plant a noisy kiss on his cheek. I can’t help it. No questions. No,are you sure you know what you’re doings?
Half an hour later, I’ve pulled on his T-shirt, the beer has been retrieved from the doorway and we’ve cut the costs down on tiles, timber, and the scaffolding for the work on the outside of the building. I nudge Mylo’s shoulder with my own and take a drink of my beer, clicking through DIY fork chandeliers. “Thank you for this.”
He doesn’t answer.
I turn my head, my eyes narrowing at his frown—until I catch which paper he’s looking over. The budget for my contractor and my ideas to get around it.
Shit.
I grab it and lay it on the table by my laptop. “I think I can make it work,” I mumble without looking at him, my cheeks heating. “I know it’s insane, but I can learn. I can teach myself…”
“You can.”
I shake my head, refusing to listen. “I can’t afford to pay anyone to do the full job, but if I do the tiling and the painting and some of the simpler stuff and just get someone in for the big jobs. Pete’s already offered to help me out with the electrics, I—”
“Kenzi.”
I snap my mouth shut and look at him.
“I don’t think it’s insane.”
“You don’t?”
His lips curve up, and he shakes his head. “I don’t. And I can help out where you need it.”
“Really?” I climb into his lap straddling his thighs and plant my hands on his bare chest, because I can.
He nods, his stare flitting over my face. “Really.”
“Okay, I’m done talking shop.”
His lips twitch, his hands falling to my hips, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to smooth over my bum, pulling me over the already growing hardness on a long inhale. “Are you now?”
I trail my palms up his solid pecs and over his shoulders, tracing the intricate flower and pocket watch design that starts at his left collarbone. My attention caught, I move both hands to his tattooed arm. Tracing my fingers over the long ridge of scar that stretches the width of his shoulder, I examine his tattoo up close for the first time. The black and gray roses, the cracked clock faces. It’s beautiful. “What does it mean?”
He shifts. Lifts his arm to give me better access to his forearm. “The time and birthdate of my nephew and niece.” He glances at the uncracked pocket watches there.
