Desperately Seeking Epic(44)

“No,” I quickly but calmly replied. “I’m just . . . confused.”

He cocked his head, twisting his mouth to the side. He knew what I meant. He knew all things considered, it was weird that he built me, of all people, a table. “You’ve heard I’m kind of a wanderer, right?”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I answered, severely confused. We were just talking about a table, now we’re talking about traveling?

“Staying in one place makes me restless. Diving sates my need for adventure, somewhat, but not completely.”

He looked at me then turned back to his truck, eyeing the table. “I’ve been trying to keep busy, stay distracted. Woodwork is my latest distraction.”

“I see,” I murmured.

“I built this same table three other times, but this one . . . this one I had trouble with.”

“It looks like a nice table,” I offered. “But . . . why are you giving it to me?”

“Well . . .” he chuckled. “I don’t need it, and I thought maybe you did.”

“Why’d you build it if you didn’t need it? Why not build a desk or a chair or something?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped a little, annoyed at my questioning. “If you don’t want it just say so.”

I gritted my teeth, biting the urge to snap back at him. Could he really blame me for being skeptical? Climbing up into the bed of the truck, I ran my hand across the wood. It really was a nice table. I couldn’t really see what he thought was wrong with it except for the rings with dark growth. Some people might not like that. The table was nothing fancy; it was simple. I liked simple. Simple could be elegant. Then I realized I could stain it to match my cabinets. “How much do you want for it?”

Paul dropped his head as if he was exhausted by me. “Nothing. I’m giving it to you. It’s a gift.”

I lost my patience. Was this a joke? Was he messing with me? “Why? Why me?”

He tilted his head to the side as he looked up at me. “Because I didn’t give up on this one. And I like the idea of giving it to someone that won’t give up on it either.”

My gaze dropped. I didn’t like that he saw this vulnerability in me. I hadn’t realized he was actually listening to me the night he brought me home as I babbled on about not giving up. I must’ve sounded like a nutjob. It was obvious, at least to me anyway, that I was going crazy latching onto a house that I had no ties to with such intense sentimentality. I wondered if he saw it, too. Or was he just taking pity on me?

“Are you sure?” I asked, my tone not hiding one bit of the uncertainty I was feeling.

“I wouldn’t have brought it over here if I wasn’t,” he argued.

I climbed out of the truck and together we pulled the table down, setting it near the porch. “I’m going to grab the wood stain I have in the kitchen. It’ll match the cabinets,” I told him.

“Wait,” he called as I spun around to go. When I turned back, he was unfolding a pocketknife before extending his arm, handing it to me.

“What is that for?”

“To make your mark.”

I blinked a few times, realizing what he meant.

“This is yours now. You’ll love it and take care of it.”

Taking the small knife and rounding the table, I looked for a good place to engrave the wood as I bit my lip in concentration. I decided on a corner. My letters were small and when I blew the wood shavings and dust from it, I smiled a little as I met Paul’s gaze. Then I held the knife out to him.

“Your turn.”

He looked stunned. “You want me to mark your table?”

“You built it,” I answered. “You’re part of this table’s history.”

Taking the knife, his mouth partly curved upward, as he scouted the surface of the table, looking for the perfect place to engrave. I’d like to tell you he picked a corner, just like me. An area that’s small. Something modest, yet meaningful. But, no. He picked the center of the table.

Dead center.

When he finished, he smiled down at his engraving. EPIC.

“Center of the table?” I questioned dryly. “Very subtle.”

He laughed as he folded the knife and slipped it back in his pocket. “Life’s too short to be subtle.”

Bending over, he blew away the dust and ran his hand over it once more. “Besides,” he added with a sideways smirk that told me whatever was about to come out of his mouth would be sarcastic. “I kind of like the idea of you seeing my name there every day and thinking of me.”

“I’m sure you do,” I snorted. “Good thing I brought some tablecloths from Texas with me. They’ll fit perfectly on this.”

He laughed as I spun around and headed inside for the wood stain. When I returned, he was shirtless. Really? Couldn’t he at least keep his clothes on? Perched on the table, his back to me, his arms were crossed and his warm skin glistened with the slightest sheen of sweat. Even from behind, he looked delectable. Shit.

I chucked a clean rag I’d grabbed from inside at him. “Tables are for glasses, not asses.”

He slid off the table with ease and turned to me, his dark eyes squinting against the bright and unrelenting sun. At the sight of his front side, I rolled my eyes. Stupid, stupid, muscular sexy chest. And arms. Those were stupid, too. Oh, and the dark hair on his chest that seemed to angle down perfectly until it thinned out, disappearing beneath his shorts. I’d never dated a guy with that much . . . hair. Not that Paul had too much, or that I thought about dating him or his hair, but Kurt had very little and the little he did have, he shaved. I had never developed an opinion on the whole hair thing with men, but on Paul I found it very . . . virile. It was alluring. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers over it. Then I wondered why in the hell I was thinking about running my fingers over Paul’s chest hair. What was wrong with me?