Reckless Hearts (Oak Harbor #2)(17)
Will looks up from a box. “That’s a sander and the big one is a jig,” he explains. “They were my grandfather’s. He worked as a craftsman, building furniture and restoring old houses.”
“That’s great,” I say, then notice a couple of chairs in the corner: their wood smoothed to an antique sheen, with cracked leather seats, so soft-looking I have to stop myself from taking a seat. “Are these his?”
Will straightens up. “No, I made those.”
“Really?” I move in to take a closer look. “They’re beautiful. I could swear they were a hundred years old.”
“That’s the point.” He looks almost bashful, his hands shoved in his pockets. “I love working with old, reclaimed wood, vintage materials. It’s like everything’s already lived a dozen lives over, this is just the latest chapter in their story.”
I look at him anew. I never would have guessed. “Is this what you did back in New York?”
He gives a short laugh. “No. I had a studio space, where it all just sat, gathering dust. But I thought, maybe, down here, I could spend more time on it . . .” Will pauses, a shy expression on his face. “There are some great design stores in the city. I thought maybe when I have more of a portfolio, I could see about them carrying a few pieces.”
“That’s great,” I say, impressed.
He shrugs, still low-key. “We’ll see. Keeps me busy, at least.”
“No, I mean it,” I insist. “You have a real talent, Will. You should be proud of it.”
Will glances up, and our eyes catch. “Thank you,” he answers softly, his eyes green in the cool shadows of the old workshop. Something pulses in the air between us, a dry static, sharp and hot, making my pulse kick and my body shiver with awareness. The silence washes over me, the stillness, so far from town. There’s nobody here, no-one to stop me if I took a step closer, and ran my hands over the broad planes of his chest, found those cool, steady lips with my own—
Will looks away. “Now, let’s see about your carburetor,” he says loudly, and I snap out of it.
What are you thinking? I remind myself, as he collects his tools and heads outside. He’s off-limits, remember?
Back out front, Will opens the hood of my car, then reaches to tinker with the engine. I decide to keep a safe distance away, back by the house, but it turns out there’s nowhere on the property safe from his charms, because after a moment, he notices the grease he’s getting on his shirt, and pulls it off—balling it into a wad and tossing it to the ground so he’s just working in his jeans, his broad shoulders naked under the hot sun.
Shirtless. Sweaty. Greasy.
Be still my heart.
I sit on the dusty porch steps with a thud. He’s not the only one getting hot now; even though I’m in the shade, I feel my body flush, watching his muscles ripple under the tanned skin of his torso.
What the . . . ?
How . . . ?
I mean . . .
Wow.
I swallow, my throat dry. Talk about thirsty; I could watch this guy work all day, but too soon, he tests the engine, and listens to the smooth purr. “All done,” he calls over, closing the hood with a snap. I get to my feet, still way too distracted by the sight of his gorgeous sweaty body.
“Thanks,” I answer, feeling awkward. “That’s the second time you’ve rescued me now. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
Will chuckles. “Don’t worry, no-one would mistake you for a damsel in distress.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I grin.
He smiles at me. “Please do.”
He strolls over, dangling my keys from one finger. When I reach to take them, his hand closes around mine for a moment. “Have dinner with me tonight.”
I struggle to keep my cool. “I already told you—”
“I know, not your style,” Will finishes, echoing what I told him before about me and relationships. “But I’m not getting down on one knee here. Dinner, you and me,” he says again, with an irresistible smile. “Consider it me collecting on your offer, back when we first met.”
“Will . . .” I murmur, torn. But who am I kidding? I lost this battle the moment he took his shirt off.
No, before then, when I saw what he’s been crafting in that workshop of his, and realized there’s more to this guy than I ever imagined.
“OK,” I say, snatching my hand back. “One date.”
Will grins, triumphant. “That’s what they all say.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Someone’s feeling confident.”
“Sure.” Will shrugs, backing away. “But all my confidence is in you. Pick you up at eight,” he calls, disappearing around the back before I have a chance to warn him I mean it: one date, that’s all, no promises, no happy endings—of any kind.
Who are you kidding?
Seven.
When my friend Eva was still in denial that her fiancé, Finn, was the love of her life, she dressed in the most boring, shapeless clothes possible for their dates together. Now, looking at my wardrobe trying to get ready for tonight, I finally get where she was coming from. Everything I have is way too short, too tight, and too flirty for a night out with Will. For once, getting a guy hot under the collar is the last thing I want. I change half a dozen times before finally settling on jeans and a plain red tank top. Still, when the doorbell rings at eight and I go to let him in, I realize that my outfit is the least of my problems: