Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
As Nixon and Reed leave for the lumberyard, Reed throws a wink over his shoulder and says, “Try not to seduce Finn while we’re gone.”
“I’ll do my best,” I murmur, but the smile that pulls at my mouth contains more than humor. Even though I’d never admit it, the idea of kissing Finn, and discovering if he kisses like his stern brother, is what I’m thinking about as they leave.
Finn stays behind. He’s quieter and more restrained than the others, but there’s a magnetism in his calm and silence that draws me in. He’s a kindred spirit with his creativity, and I find that artistic part of him intriguing.
“I want to show you something,” he says after a moment.
“Sure.” I grab my crutch in readiness.
Finn walks out back to a workshop nestled between the trees. I’m still hobbling, but my mobility has improved overnight. His place of work is a rustic outbuilding with sunlight pouring through sawdust-clouded windows onto rows of tools, carved wood, and unfinished projects that hum with potential. The space is warm and smells like pine and varnish, scents that are familiar and relaxing.
“This is where I work,” he says simply, watching as I take it all in.
I run my fingers over a narrow table, the scrollwork delicate and elegant, the craftsmanship so fine. “You made this?”
“Yeah. From ash. Good for detail. Strong.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. Not just the table but the whole space that exudes the same calm energy as Finn.
“You should sell them,” I say. “I could list them on my website. I know people who would love these.”
He hesitates. “I don’t think—”
“Let me try a few pieces. You can decide the prices. I won’t take a cut until I prove there’s demand.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then gives a reluctant nod. “It’s not about the money, Scarlet, but okay.”
His pause tightens my belly. We’re standing too close. There’s something carved into the lines of his face, and his dark eyes hold mine, staring like he sees into places I usually keep locked. His forearms flex with quiet strength, veins and tendons shifting beneath sun-kissed skin, and his hands… God, those hands. Rough from his works, but elegance in motion. Beautiful, not because of what they look like but for what they can craft. I wonder what they’d feel like on my waist and in my hair, maybe between my thighs. His hand brushes mine, and the air tightens between us. His gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart trips in my chest.
For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me.
Would it burn with the same heat as Nixon’s, or would it be softer and quieter, like Finn?
He steps back instead, clears his throat, and turns away, and the loss of his attention is so sharp it surprises me.
“How about this?” he says, waving toward a small table. “And this?” The chair is intricately carved and mirror-polished.
“Definitely. What about this?”
I trail my fingers over a shelving unit with flared legs that seem to emerge from the ground like they’re anchored to roots.
“Okay.”
“I can do it now, if you price them.”
He pulls out a worn, yellowed notebook that curls at the edges. His pen, in contrast, is a beautiful, gold-tipped fountain pen, and his writing is an elegant cursive that fills me with envy for its neatness.
I lean my crutch against the wall and shuffle into position to photograph the items. I can crop them and adjust the backgrounds to better match my website theme. In a matter of minutes, I have the images completed. Finn passes me his costs and the price he’d like to charge for each piece, which are way below what I’d have suggested. Taking the pen from his hand, I write the prices I’m going to list next to his.
“Seriously?”
“Trust me,” I say. “Rich people don’t value anything cheap.”
He shakes his head. “You have people who pay that much.”
“For craftsmanship like this? Of course. These are unique pieces with an origin story. Can I take a picture of you to feature? People love to see the creator responsible.”
He seems reluctant, but I hold up my phone.
“I’m not smiling,” he says, through gritted teeth.
“Even better. Nothing appeals more than a handsome, tortured artist.”
“Three descriptors that have never been applied to me.”
I stare at him through the screen, wondering how that could be true. His features are artful and beautiful in a way that hurts to look at for too long. There’s a wildness to him that makes me want to discover more.
“What about a bio?”
“Whatever you think?” He shakes his head. “Nixon won’t like this.”
“Why?”
“He’s a private person.”
“So, don’t tell him. If nothing sells, no harm, no foul.”
Finn hesitates, rubbing between his eyes.
Jeez. He’s really stressed about his brother’s reaction in a way that doesn’t seem rational. Why does Nixon have so much power over what Finn does, and why the desire for privacy?