Page 17 of Grouch-ish

“Oh.” I scoff. Not attracted to me. Got it. “Anyway . . . what’s all this?”

“Day two for you.” She giggles at her own rhyme. “Dad mentioned you are good at wood working.”

Is she questioning my ability? And did she say her dad has mentioned me? Who knows what Cap has told Pear about me. Probably the truth. Which worries me more than it should.

She continues, “So he has this dresser.” She points toward a low, three-drawer dresser painted white.

“And that child’s cabinet.” She nods toward a mid-chest-high piece of furniture with one long drawer at the top and several smaller ones stacked on top of each other next to a low door. The piece is rather unique.

“A few of the dovetail joints are missing.” Pear steps closer to the first dresser. “In fact, the front panel for this one is broken, and I’m hoping you can repair it.”

I stare at Pear a long moment before stepping closer to the furniture and inspecting the structure. Dovetailing is a traditional way to build furniture and cabinets, and a craft that went out of style for a while, then returned to fashion. With pressed wood being the major component of most modern furniture, it’s rare to find dovetail work in pieces unless the item has been hand-crafted or is an antique. This set of dressers falls into both categories.

“I’d need glue and a hand chisel, and—” I stop as Pear opens her arm to wave around us.

“Everything you need should be here and if it’s not, you’ll need to make do. Dad’s words. Not mine.” Pear shakes her head like she’s exasperated by her father or maybe she’s just sick of playing messenger.

“Maybe you should just give me the list of things Cap wants done and I’ll check them off as I go.”

“No can do, fireman. Dad says—” She cuts herself short when I start to scoff.

I’ve lost count on how many times she says Dad says. “Look, just give me the list.”

“No.” Her firm tone is accentuated when she places her hands on her hips. “You’ll get a project every day and—”

“If you give me the list, I can speed things up. Maybe cut out two birds with one stone, maybe even three in a day.”

“I don’t want you taking out two birds. You have twelve days to fulfill.”

“Aw, snowflake, are you trying to keep me here?” I chide. “That’s sweet.”

“You wish.” She rolls her eyes and returns to sanding the bench. Her delicate hand wraps around a spindle, and she works it up and down, up and down, rubbing at the cylinder piece in sharp, quick jerks to strip it clean.

My thoughts run rampant.

Jesus. I rub a hand down my face, feeling the scratch of my scruff. I need to get a grip on myself and the internal innuendo. Visions of her stroking me that way, giving me a release, have no place here.

Removing my jacket as the space is warm enough and working will only further heat me, I look through Cap’s tools and find an old hand chisel. What I really need is a dovetail saw . . . and oh my God, Cap has one, plus a square level and beveled angle level. Cap’s work bench is a woodworker’s dream.

“I didn’t know Cap was into woodworking or building furniture.”

“Oh, he’s not. This stuff was left over from when Dad bought the place. The former owner was a cabinet maker or something like that.”

Admiring the tools I’ll use, I run my fingertips over the edges. The sharp angles. The dulled points.

“You okay?” Pear asks.

“It’s nothing.” I step over to the dresser first, examining what needs to be done. The piece of furniture is small and white, which leads me to believe it belonged to a child at one time.

“Tell me,” she prompts.

“It’s stu—” I glance up at her, catching her eyes and watching her brows sternly press together, daring me to say the word. As much as I want her to playfully scold me like the bad boy I can be, this is different.

“I’d love to build furniture.”

“Really?” Those pinched brows hitch higher, surprise and curiosity filling her blue eyes.

“Yes, really.” Is it so hard to believe? “My ex didn’t believe I could. She wanted . . . well, it doesn’t matter.”