Page 6 of Dream Weaver
“Thismonth?” I yelped.
Rich nodded. “Kevin’s family has agreed to be there and everything. And although we’re not in this for the publicity… Well, you know as well as I that we could use all the recognition we can get.”
Wemeant the firefighting profession, and I couldn’t agree more. That and funding were always at the top of a firefighter’s wish list.
But, shit. What about the fallout if — when? — the axes didn’t prove all that lucky?
Walt patted the air with his hands. “I have it all figured out.”
Ha. He’d said the same thing about employee 401(k) plans, and those still hadn’t materialized.
“You can get it done with a little help,” he continued.
My heart sank as I glanced around the shop. Walt was going to make this a group project, wasn’t he? Even as far back as first grade, I’d hated group projects. I still hated them.
“I work alone.” I glared.
“Call it an opportunity to develop your leadership skills,” Walt shot back.
Dammit, I hated when he anticipated my arguments.
“What about your other clients?” I tried. “You haven’t talked them all into postponing their deadlines, have you?”
Walt shook his head. “The other guys will stay on their projects. We’ve found you a different assistant.”
I frowned. We, who?
Walt and Rich grinned at each other, then turned to Paul Bunyan — er, Cooper.
He blinked at them, then did a double take.
“Me?”
Rich clapped him on his boulder of a shoulder. “Yes, you. Didn’t you say you do some metalwork in the off-season?”
Cooper’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. Very nice, warm brown eyes, I couldn’t help noticing. Warm and deep, like there was a whole world to discover beneath the surface.
Red list,I reminded myself. Nothing to get all hot and bothered by.
“I do a lot ofwoodworkin the off-season. I’ve helped my uncle with a few metal projects, but nothing like this.” His stiff posture and clipped tone made it clear he wanted no part of this.
Good. That made two of us.
“Don’t worry,” Walt said. “Abby will get the job done. All you have to do is assist.”
My eyes met Cooper’s by angling way, way up. I came to about the height of his shoulders, and if I’d wanted to peek behind him, I would have had to lean way out to one side. He was that broad, and all that bulk was muscle. But once we locked eyes, I knew we were absolutely, totally, completely on the same page about one thing: not wanting this job. Otherwise, I could already tell we had nothing in common. He looked like a nice, polite, grounded guy who’d been raised in a normal nuclear family.
I’d had flames tattooed on my arms when I was fifteen.
His mother, I was sure, would flip out at such a thing. My mother hadn’t noticed the artwork until about a year in.
There was no way this was going to work, and I opened my mouth to say so.
But a funny thing happened as our eyes remained locked. My inner alarms faded, replaced by a flush of warmth, along with asense of soul-deep connection. And for that split second, my soul did what it rarely did.
It felt at peace. Absolute, calm, complete peace. A little like some evenings after I tucked my daughter into bed and stayed there, listening to her steady breaths after she fell asleep.
Then I snapped back to my senses. “I don’t want or need an assistant.”
