Page 26 of My Big Fat Shifter Wedding

She chuckled, but it sounded nervous. “No, not really.”

“You’re quite strong.”

“It’s not a big deal. Don’t mention it.”

I didn’t understand why she seemed embarrassed by her strength, but it wasn’t my business to know. I’d always been attracted to powerful women, but perhaps she was used to people putting her down for that.

If that was the case, it was a terrible shame.

I was way too deep in my own head, so between that and Olivia’s obvious embarrassment, the conversation between us that had been flowing so easily dried up.

Damn.

Until, of course, I heard a familiar clearing of a throat.

“Yes, Amanda?” I said, not quite tearing my gaze away from her friend (did they actually know each other?).

“Olivia has some questions she’d like to ask after class. Ya know, if you’re free and all.”

Was I crazy or was the fashionista being my wingman?

Or… even crazier, was she being Olivia’s wingman?

“Sure,” I replied in a totally cool and not awkward at all way. “Hang around and we can chat while I clean up.”

“Sounds great,” Olivia murmured, her face growing pinker by the second.

I hurried off to teach the rest of the lesson, and thankfully, I was able to get my mind back on track to explain the power tools. While there might be something going on between me and the beautiful woman in the back of my class, that something wouldn’t go anywhere if someone drilled through their palm.

Safety first, always.

***

“So, you said you have some questions?” I asked as I wiped down the workstation tables, grateful I had something to do with my hands. Technically I wasn’t a professor, and Olivia was an adult and not an actual student like Amanda, but I couldn’t help the thrill that licked up my spine at the illicit ideas that my subconscious was whispering to the back of my mind.

“I do!” She was smiling as widely as she had when she entered. She hopped up on the closest stool to me, and I made a pointed effort to slide my eyes away and not focus on her… jiggle physics. “I was hoping to ask you some questions about your wood.”

“What?” I said far too quickly before remembering that I was a woodworker and it was only natural for her to ask me about lumber.

Still, her phrasing could use some work.

“What about it?”

“Why did you choose yellow birch for me?” She gave me that quizzical look again as if I was the strange one for reacting the way I did to her question.

Wait a minute, she wasn’t purposefully using innuendos, was she?

“I mean, I assume you weren’t actually calling me a bitch.”

“Of course not!”

“Right, that’s what I thought. So, why the yellow birch? What properties made you decide it was best for my silly little mug?”

“Well, your mug-tankard hybrid isn’t silly, I think it’s quite sweet. And I figured there were three woods you could use: yellow birch, hard maple, white oak. But maple can be a bit more expensive, and although white oak is a sort of gold standard for beer barrels, I thought the yellow birch’s close-grained structure and density would be better. Especially since it has good shock resistance in case, say, an older relative dropped it repeatedly.”

She smiled again, and I was utterly dazzled. “You put so much thought into it for a quick conversation.”

“It was less deep thought and more a force of habit at this point.”