Bring Me Back(86)

I look at him from beneath my lashes. “I never really thought about that.”

“I know you haven’t, and that’s okay. You have enough on your mind. But when you get freaked out by what you’re feeling just talk to me, I might be feeling it too and it helps to talk.”

I clear my throat. “D-Do you see a future with me in it?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Do you see a future with me?”

I blink back the tears. “Yes,” I confess.

“And that frightens you.” I nod. “It does me too,” he sighs. “I think something would be wrong with us if it didn’t scare us.”

I smile a bit at that. “This is normal,” I state.

“Completely normal,” he agrees. “That’s why I keep saying it’s okay to take our time. If it ever gets to be too much for you just tell me and we’ll slow down.”

“The same goes for you too,” I tell him. “You can tell me if it becomes too much.”

He nods. “I know.” He stands from the table and holds out his hand to me. I place mine in his without a second of thought. “I want to show you something.”

He leads me outside and around the side of the house to a shed. He lets go of my hand and twists the round knob on the combination. It comes undone and he swings the doors open.

I eye him. “You’re not taking me in here to chop me into a million pieces are you?”

He laughs. “No. This is my workshop.”

He flicks on a light and the shed is bathed in brightness. “Oh,” I say, stepping inside. Wood shavings litter the floor along with other various debris. There’s a work table in the corner with a saw and an island-type counter in the center of the shed covered in metal pieces. My gaze moves to a wrought iron headboard leaning against one wall. “So, you make things?” I ask.

“Yes, and refurbish them, like the chandelier in the baby’s room.” He shrugs and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “It’s my hobby. I like taking old things and making them new again.”

I brush my fingers through some wood shavings on the table and then blow the dust off my fingers. “Are you good at everything you do?”

He chuckles. “Hardly.”

“This is beautiful.” I point to a step stool. It has the start of Cole’s name carved into it—with letters that can pop out and go back in.

“Thanks,” he says. “So,” he starts, “what’s your hobby?”

My brows furrow. “I’m not sure I have one.”

He chuckles and steps around the other side of the counter so we’re standing in front of each other. “Of course you do. Everybody has one.”

“Um,” I think, “I like to read?” It comes out sounding like a question. “But you already knew that.”

“That’s definitely a hobby, but there must be something else.”

“I like to bake. I’m not very good.” I laugh. “But I like it.” My mind goes back to Thanksgiving, and the ill-fated pie I’d tried to make. Life was so much simpler then.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

“Life, I guess.” I shrug, picking up a small piece of wood before setting it back down. “I haven’t had the time.”

“Make the time,” he says. “It helps.”

“It does?”

He nods. “I stopped making things after Angela and I got married. Like you said, I didn’t have the time. But when she died I needed something to quiet my mind and my mom reminded me that I used to love this, so I started up again and haven’t stopped since. It takes me a while to finish a project, but that’s okay. It quiets my mind and keeps me from dwelling on things.”

“Hmm,” I hum. “I’ll have to try. Maybe I can make Cole and you some cupcakes. What’s your favorite?”

“Chocolate.” He grins. “Cole’s too. We both love chocolate anything.”

“I’ll remember that,” I say.

We leave the shed and Ryder locks it up. I follow him back inside, feeling weird to go first, and he leads me to the family room where he collapses on the couch and pats the space beside him. I take a seat, drawing my legs under me.

“How’s it going at the apartment?” he asks. “You haven’t called me since that first night.”

“It’s okay.” I shrug. “The cable finally got hooked up and Hannah’s come over the last two nights and my parents too. Hannah’s my friend that lives in the apartment below me,” I explain.

He nods. “It’s nice you have someone there that close.”

“It is,” I agree. I wince and move my legs out from under me. “My feet are killing me,” I groan. I lean forward and kick off my flats so I can rub my sore feet.

He moves my hand away. “Here, let me.”

I look at him like he’s lost my mind. “You want to rub my feet?”

“Sure. They’re hurting and I want you to feel better.” This man. This man. He will be the end of me. I lie back and stretch my legs out, putting them in his lap. “Here,” he says, and hands me a pillow. “I’m sure you want a pillow behind your back.”

“You’re a mind reader.” I take the pillow from him and position it behind me. Once I’m situated, he goes to work massaging his thumb into the arch of my foot. It feels so good that my toes curl. “You have no idea how good that feels,” I moan.