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“So then…what? What made you decide to give me furniture, and don’t even try to deny it, because Iknowa Cohen Custom piece when I see one.”
I have to work hard to hide my smile at that, because it was very much a compliment. Knowing Busy can spot my work—my family’s legacy of work—bolsters something in my chest.
“I normally move a lot of pieces over the Fourth of July holiday and sales were just super slow this year,” I tell her, having come up with this plan before I even asked Nick to help me load up the trailer. “These are some of the ones I was hoping to get rid of that didn’t sell, and I was thinking maybe you and Junie might like to have them.”
She’s already shaking her head before I’m finished.
“I appreciate that Reid, really.” She crosses her arms. “But I can’t afford these, even if you do a wildly deep discount. And there’s no way I would accept them for free.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”
She scoffs. “Because.”
“Because why?”
“What do you meanbecause why? Because…it’s far too generous.”
Sighing, I push up from the couch and cross over to the screen door. Then I shove it open. “You can come inside, you know. You don’t have to stand out there.”
“I’m serious, Reid,” she continues, stepping in, her face awash with frustration.
“So am I,” I reply. “You’re doingmea favor. If you came to my shop, you’d see how many pieces there are that I need to unload. I need to make space for other projects.”
Pinning me with a look, she rests her hands on her hips. “You’re full of shit.”
I laugh. “I’mnot.”
Nick said he wouldn’t want to see Busy Mitchell mad, but I don’t mind it all that much. She’s fucking cute as hell, her fists clenched at her sides, the divot between her eyebrows growing more and more pronounced with each thing she says.
“Besides, the one I gave you is totally run down and I absolutely can’t sell it.”
Busy purses her lips, her head tilting to the side, clearly unimpressed. “Now Iknowyou’re full of shit.”
At that, my lips tilt up at the sides. “Maybe a bit.”
She sighs, rubbing her hand against her forehead, her eyes glancing around my cabin before finally returning to me.
“Will you let me pay you?”
I shake my head. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Why are you doing this? Did you think I couldn’t figure it out on my own?”
At that, my teasing expression falls. “Absolutely not, Busy.” I step forward, wishing I could take her hands in mine. “This isnot about thinking you can’t do it. This is just…about wanting to help.”
I don’t like that she thinks this is some sort of charity thing, or that I don’t believe she’s a capable person, or worse, if she thinks I think she’s a bad mom. That’s not atallwhat this is about.
“I’m so tired of accepting everyone’s help,” she finally admits, her shoulders falling.
I wince, realizing maybe I’ve touched on a wound and caused more of a problem when what I wastryingto do was solve one.
“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,” I tell her. “If you want me to take the pieces back to the shop, I can. But when I tell you I want you to have them, I mean it. This isn’t charity. This isn’t me thinking less of you or not believing in you. This is just me, being your friend.”
I pause.
“And selfishly wanting to come over without killing my knees.”
Her lips tilt up at the last part, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief, knowing I’ve at least made her smile.
