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I shake my head. “I know what’s wrong.”
“Is that metal prong supposed to be like that?”
I sigh, holding back a growl at this spontaneous episode of twenty questions. I don’t mind teaching someone something. I enjoy spreading knowledge. But with her body heat so close to mine and her sweet floral scent invading my nose, I feel filthy—not just because of how much she’s luring me to get closer even though I know I shouldn’t, but also because of the reason why I definitely don’t belong with her. I feel so opposite her and almost unworthy with my rugged, dirt-caked clothes. I’ve been reminded of how I don’t fit with a pretty woman like her. I’ve been reminded of how not everyone can see the real me past my blue-collar exterior. And I should know better than to wish for something like that with this hot blonde from Paris.
I never learn. Women, snooty women at least, see men like me as nothing more than eye candy, something to appreciate and fantasize about from afar. Never up close.
I answer her questions, and she continues to hover and pepper me with more. As I muse about the contrasts between us, I try to distract myself with a closer look around the room. Sewing patterns cover the coffee table, and piles of fabric cut in squares lay on the couch.
When I’m finished with repairing the rusty parts of the closed circuit, I show her how it’s all working by plugging in a lamp. She must have wanted to use it by this chair over here to draw under brighter light. The sketchbook that lies open on the side table catches my eye. If she were to wear a gown like that…Hot.
“These are, uh, really good.”
She arches her brow at where I point.
“Very detailed,” I add so I don’t sound so stupid. What would I know about dresses other than how sexy they might look on a woman. That and how quickly I could take it off them. Still, the detail, shading, and pencil work are not that of a hobbyist.
“You’re really talented.” I glance up to catch her vulnerable expression. For once, she’s not scowling or smirking. It’s a softer look of surprise that she quickly shutters.
“That doesn’t mean much from a guy who swings a hammer all day,” she replies.
I pull my lower lip between my teeth, fighting the urge to smile. I’m not shocked she thought that. We are different. But I admire that she said it out loud. I can’t figure out why, but I kind of like that she’s mean. That she gives as good as she gets, yet I can’t shake the suspicion that something else is going on with her than that defiance.
I sigh and step back, reaching into my wallet for my business card. I leave it on the kitchen counter as I pass through and head out, not needing her to see me to the door.
“Call me if anything else goes wrong, all right?”
I exit before waiting for her reply. Because if I stay in there for a moment longer, alone with her and intrigued about how she doesn’t back down, I’m afraid I’ll want to find more buttons to push.
And I’m not sure what to do if she lets me.
Chapter 8
Claire
I came to Colorado because Dalton said the change of scenery would be good after Owen broke up with me. The reception proves not to be as horrible as I thought it would be, but I still ignore my mother’s calls and emails. Since Lauren asked me to work on her dress design, I haven’t entertained the possibility that I could be idle. I’ve been anything but. Having an actual “client” sparks me to work even harder than I did when I was preparing to graduate in Paris. Those long nights and days full of studying were just that, studying. Doing the real thing for a real person and not a simulation or assignment makes it different.
Every day, I wake up excited to return to where I left off the day before. Video calls help me check with Lauren, and it seems the bug bit her, too. She’s growing more curious and excited about her dress. With her busy decorating and designing the interiors of the motels she and Caleb are flipping, Face Timing her is the fastest and easiest way for her to stay in the loop with where I’m at. It’s convenient for me, too, to check if I’m getting warmer with what she is envisioning.
Convenient. I roll my eyes as I stitch another sample of the floral embroidery I think Lauren would like. Sawyer threw that word at me, accusing me of asking him for help with those outlets because he was convenient. Yes, he was. Sawyer was convenient in the sense that he was nearby and likely knowledgeable about basic electrical work. But the way he retorted with that question, he seemed to be making a bigger dig at himself. Like he’d previously been reduced to a label of convenience, rather than something else. In those few minutes when he fixed the wires, he showed me that he was also patient and smart. Then, when he complimented me about the sketches he happened to see in my book, he proved he had a compassionate side, too.
Stop thinking about him. I set the piece of embroidery down in my lap and flex my fingers. I’ve been at this for too long, and even though I’m seated under the high-powered light Caleb purchased for me as part of the materials and resources I need to make Lauren’s dress, I am not doing myself any favors hunching over and overdoing it with the same repetitive hand motions of sewing. This is just a sample piece, and when I make the actual dress, my fingers and wrists will really be in for it if I can’t find a suitable sewing machine.
Adding that to the list. Or moving it further up. I have so many to-do checklists I need a master list to keep track of them. One is for weird little things in this cabin that I can’t stand. The leaky sink. That squeaky fan blade. The weird way the washer won’t kick on. Another list is for things I need to find to make Lauren’s dress a reality. More pencils would help, too.
It doesn’t matter if it’s practicing sample embroidery or redrawing options for Lauren, I’m meticulous about perfecting a vision for her to consider. So many details need to be considered, and it’s a good place to pour all of my energy.
Or too much of it. Just as I weigh the pros and cons of taking a break or looking up where I could get a massage to relieve the tension in my neck and hands, a knock sounds on the door.
I’m hopeful it’s Sawyer, but as I stand, I push the idea away. Since he called me out on watching him, and even worse, teasing that I was coming down the drive to bug him, I’ve been going out of my way to not even be visible.
He’s shown up with his crew every day, but I refuse to go sit on the deck. He’s been out there, hot and so sweaty under the sun with his shirt off, but I will not approach him and give him another chance of saying I “bug” him.
I sat out there because I was lonely. I still am, but I have Lauren’s dress to focus on, so the solitude doesn’t get to me as much.
It’s not him, though, and seeing Aubrey at the door, I wonder if he really meant it. If he really didn’t want me to bug him anymore. The only saving grace that I can cling to is the fact he left his business card. When he left, he told me to let him know if I needed any help. That didn’t sound like stay away and don’t bug me. I’m confused about what he wants with me now. After getting my hopes up that it would be him at the door, curious why I wasn’t watching him anymore, I hated to think he wasn’t interested in anything with me.
No. That’s ideal. I don’t need him in my life.
