Page 69 of What We Break
But she's out there laughing, throwing herself full-body into this stupid game with my stupid friends, being competitive and silly and completely unguarded, and my fingers are gripping the edge of the bench so hard the wood grain is probably tattooing itself into my palms.
Yeah. I want all of this. All the time. Forever.
I'm completely gone for this woman.
And I don't even care.
"Hey," Laine says, looking up at me with those blue eyes. Her laughter has faded to a soft smile. "You okay? You got quiet."
"Better than okay." I pull her closer, both arms around her, and she comes easy, hands landing on my chest like they belong there. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
About spending the rest of my life with you. About waking up next to you every morning. About how I didn't even know I was looking for you until I found you.
Right. Cool. Totally normal thing to be thinking six weeks in. Not unhinged at all.
"About how glad I am you came today," I say instead. Because it's true, and it's not insane, and it won't send her running for the hills.
"Me too." She rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me, soft and unhurried. "Your friends are great. This was great. You're great."
"That's a lot of greats."
"You deserve a lot of greats."
My thumbs trace circles on her waist. I could stand here forever. I could literally root into this grass and become a tree and be fine with it as long as she stayed leaning against the trunk. I wouldn't care about the birds, even if they shit on me.
Fuck. The bugs, though.
Tony chooses that moment to slosh out of the pond, shoes squelching, shorts dripping a small river onto the bank. "Alright, lovebirds, save it for later. Who's buying the first round? Because I need a beer and I need it now."
Laine pulls back, but she keeps hold of my hand. "I think the guy who went swimming should buy."
"Harsh," Tony says, but he's grinning. "I like her, Reid. She's mean. Keep her."
"That's the plan," I say.
14
BLAKE
The smell hits me first when I wake up—sawdust and linseed oil, shit that's better than coffee for getting my brain working. I'm on the workshop couch again, neck stiff as hell, still wearing yesterday's jeans with wood shavings stuck to my shirt.
Fucking brilliant way to start the day.
The Victorian mantelpiece I've been fighting with all week glares back at me from across the room, half its carved roses stripped down to bare wood. The client from Seattle wants it "museum quality" by Friday. Yeah, well. She can want all she likes.
I've seen what real loss looks like. Missing a deadline isn't the end of the world. No fucking way I'm letting that piece out of here until it's perfect. Gramps always said the wood takes time to reveal itself, and that you had to be patient. As a kid that was hard.
Now, time is my fucking lifeline.
I grab a Coke from the mini fridge and crack it open. Breakfast sorted. The workshop's quiet except for the dehumidifier humming and my phone buzzing like an angry wasp on the workbench. The client again:Any updates on timeline? My designer is asking.
I look at the message, then flip the phone face-down. Lady wants perfection, she gets perfection. On my schedule, not hers.
This is what makes sense to me. Taking something broken and putting it back the way it was meant to be. Not better. Just right.
And that can't be rushed.
