Page 51 of Untroubled Heart

“Fame af me?” My words fight through the deliciousness to get out, and Mason looks up at me curiously, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. It’s silent for a beat before we both collapse into laughter, trying to keep the food in our mouths, coughing as we finally swallow it down.

“What’s next on our list?” I ask once we’ve finished our lunch. Mason’s tearing up his napkin, twisting one end into a tight stalk.

“We’re going to make a start on ripping up those floorboards in the attic that are deteriorating. I’ll get some guys in to finish up over the rest of the week so we can knock down some walls when you’re back next.” He tosses the finished napkin rose on the table, then pushes his seat back.

“Is it alright if I pump first? I only need like twenty minutes?”

“Of course.” He starts to put all our rubbish into the takeout bag. “I already set another chair up in the front room next to a powerpoint, and there’s a bottle of water for you too.” He pushes his seat back to stand. “I’ll go mark up the boards so we can get straight into it when you’re done.”

Once I’ve pumped, stored the milk in my cooler bag and given myself a stern talking to about swooning over my boss, I find Mason upstairs.

I balk when he holds a powertool up to me.

“You want me to cut it?”

“I thought you wanted to learn?” He chuckles.

“What if I don’t cut it straight?”

“I’ll help you,” he says, shuffling closer on his knees. “The harder you pull this trigger, the faster it will cut, so go slow while you get a feel for it.”

I take it from him and adjust my grip until it’s comfortable. “Here?” I ask once I’m in place.

“Yep, wherever you want to start.”

I squeeze my fingers slowly, waiting for the buzz of the machine to start. Nothing happens for a good few seconds, and then it roars to life, making me squeal in surprise.

Mason chuckles softly, then edges even closer, his hand landing beside mine, framing it within the curve of his forefinger and thumb.

“Like this.” His chest hovers over my back as his other arm comes over me, his palm covering mine on the tool. It’s hard to concentrate on the task at hand when his whole body surrounds me. The warmth of his hard chest against my back. Mint and patchouli taking over the air. His breath against my neck.

His fingers squeeze, and when it comes on this time, I only jump a little. The buzz drowns out his laugh, but I feel the rumble of it through my back before he guides my hand through the wood. We stay like that until all the pieces are cut, then we use the crowbar to pry the sections out.

When the last board comes up, we both pause, studying the open cavity.

“What’s that?” I ask as Mason reaches in, retrieving a rusted metal box.

He gives it a shake, and when something rustles inside, his brows pinch tighter. He turns it around, showing me a keyhole on the front.

Why would someone hide a box under the floorboards? It looks like it’s been hiding there for decades. I study the ornate design around the lock when something triggers in my mind. I’m on my feet in seconds, racing up the princess tower—yes, I’m still calling it that—pulling the key from the window lock, and handing it to Mason.

I sit beside him, crossing my legs to get closer as he slips the key in place. The room is silent, time standing still until the snick of the lock fills the room and we both take a breath.

Mason lifts the lid, revealing a bunch of letters. Some loose, some stacked together and tied in twine. He sets the box between us, lifting one of the letters sitting on top.

“My dearest Florence,” he reads. “What a burden my soul bears to behold you yet claim no greater fortune than a single, fleeting glance. And still, in my blessings, that glance holds everything. If you may bestow upon me your grace, meet me beneath the weeping willow, where the hush of evening grants us a freedom denied by day. There, in the tender keeping of the moon’s pale light, my devotion may breathe, unburdened and unashamed. For when the sun ascends, I am bound once more to quiet the embers of my longing, to conceal what so fiercely lives within me. Yours, Greyson.”

“A love letter?” My thumb brushes against the worn paper, running over the date in the top right corner of the page. June 24th, 1897.

What it must be like to have a lover so consumed by you, he’d put it in writing. The longing. The desperation.

Is this what love is like for some people?

Am I destined for a great love one day? Have I been going about it all wrong before now, or is it not meant for everyone?

Mason places the letter on the floor, retrieving another.

“My dearest Florence. You looked so lovely tonight, my reckless heart could scarce endure it; and yet I found myself wholly unable to withdraw my gaze, for it is only in looking upon you that I am granted any true measure of peace.