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)
I sit on a low workbench, working on the images as Finn sweeps the floor and collects the wood dust in a dustpan and brush. When I’ve completed Finn’s page and added the chair, I notice that I have service. Messages from my mom and friends spill into my inbox, but I’m driven to complete this task while I can. I finish my edits and pull up the live webpage. He takes my phone, squinting at his photo and the edited image of his masterpiece in wood.
“You did all this now?”
He meets my eyes, and my heart stutters.
“Yeah. Is it good? I can get the others up now.”
“It’s…” He shakes his head. “You’re really something, Scarlet.”
I’m not a woman who blushes easily, but I do now. To distract from my raging flush, I take my phone and add the small table, but it rings in my hand before I get a chance. Finn startles, then leans back against his workbench, folding his muscular arms across his broad chest.
“Hello?”
“Scarlet, Hi! It’s Amber Sinclair. I saw the chair you listed, and I want it. Tell me it hasn’t sold yet.”
“No. Not yet.”
Finn tips his head to one side.
“He’s a new furniture designer, right?” she asks.
“He’s well established in his small town,” I tell her. “I was lucky to get some pieces from his current collection.”
“Could he make another one?” she asks. “A matching set?”
“Well, it won’t be a perfect match,” I say. “That’s the beauty of what he makes. It showcases the wood, and each piece will have unique aspects.”
“That’s perfect,” Amber says. “I’ll transfer the money for both now.”
I mouth to Finn, “When can you finish another chair?”
He’s startled, straightening and uncrossing his arms. “Two weeks?”
“Delivery will be in five weeks,” I say. “Does that work for you?”
“Perfect.” She sighs. “I can’t believe how perfect they’ll be for the hallway in our cabin.”
“I’m so happy you like Finn’s work.”
We say our goodbyes, and I smile as Amber’s payment lands in my account immediately. That woman is the perfect customer.
“One down,” I say. “I hope you’re ready to get to work. I suspect you’re going to be rushed off your feet.”
Finn shakes his head, the corners of his lips lifting. “If Nixon doesn’t have anything to say about it.”
13
REED
When Finn and Scarlet pull up at the lumberyard, Finn guides her out of the car with the careful gentleness he reserves for things he treasures. I'm a tough guy but seeing my brother stare at our future mate with wide, open eyes and a heart to match, puts a fucking lump in my throat.
Nixon pulled me aside earlier, instructing me to stall Scarlet from making a final order. Once that's done, she has no more reason to stay. But knowing Finn, he'll want to meet all her needs. He has trouble saying no.
It's delicate, this dance we're doing. She wants to finalize and go home, and Nixon intends to give her time to develop feelings for us and be certain of her choice before we claim her and make her ours forever.
Hope is a tricky thing. It slips in as soft as sawdust, and before you know it, you're building castles in your head.
I never thought I'd want something this badly, but Scarlet is hot as a wildfire, and I'm ready to burn.
So, I set the plan in motion, sweeping my gaze over the stacked beams as I say, “We've got a special delivery of reclaimed cherry, oak, and maple due in tomorrow or the day after. It's worth waiting for, right? We can draft your list now, from the stock we have, and do a final walk-through when the new stock arrives.”
Scarlet looks at her list and the yard piled high with lumber and seems torn. When her eyes return to me, they're slightly narrowed, assessing. Is it a stalling tactic, she's thinking? Or could she be missing out on some excellent wood?
I grin at the innuendo. Between Nixon, Reed, and me, we'd show her the kind of wood she's only dreamed about experiencing. Mate bonding sex is like nothing else. I wish I could tell her without terrifying her. Right now, any kind of confession would send her running from the big bad wolves who want to eat her up.
“A draft list… we can do that.”
Relief washes through me. That was easier than I thought.
We head to the big shed, her heels crunching softly on the gravel. She unfolds her notebook, and I lean in close, watching as she writes dimensions, finishes, and grain details. Nixon stands nearby, arms folded, tense from the sweet scent of our mate that lingers. I watch Scarlet relax into the process, her brow smoothing and appetite sharpening.
She discusses furniture with Finn, and I smile as they bond over carving and varnish techniques, and passion swells between them. As we finish the draft list, our hands brush as she flips a page, lingering long enough to make me smile some more.