Page 258 of Manhattan Bossholes

“Heard that thing rumbling all the way down the block,” she said, gesturing to the truck.

“Pretty sure it’s one pothole away from exploding,” I grumbled.

The corner of her mouth quirked. “That day when I came by to pick out what I wanted from the warehouse, I thought you said you had a moving company that would handle the delivery. Was that a lie, or do you moonlight as a mover?”

“Nah, this is what all the CEOs are doing nowadays.”

“I see. Getting hands-on experience.”

I touched my hand to my chest. “I personally like to understand every aspect of my company from the ground up. Gives it the personal touch.”

She smirked. “I assume the movers you hired fell through?”

“Yeah, double-booked or whatever. So you’ve got me instead.” For a moment I thought I saw her blush, then she turned away, heading back down the stairs.

“You can bring it through here,” she called over her shoulder.

I grabbed the first piece of lumber, carrying it down into the basement for her. She’d said she’d converted it into a workshop, but I hadn’t expected anything so elaborate. There were projects in various stages of completion and materials and power tools everywhere.

“Uh…where do you want this?”

She pointed across the room. “Leaned up against the wall over there if you can. Be careful of all the cords.”

I carried it over, taking her advice as I gingerly stepped over the power cords. “I appreciate the concern for my safety.”

She shook her head, hiding a smile as she leaned down to measure something. “Just making sure I don’t get involved in a lawsuit.”

“Ah, I see how it is,” I said. “I’m just a mover to you.”

She laughed. “You really are. You know, I think I almost prefer it to the CEO.”

I returned to the truck for the next piece and the next. Nothing was particularly heavy, just bulky and awkward to carry. I set the pieces down, crouching so I didn’t pull my back. When I noticed Natasha watching me, I flexed a bit. I’d ditched my sweatshirt in the truck, sweaty from all the back and forth.

The last of the materials I moved was the salvaged stained glass. I’d wrapped the panels in the moving blankets, and it looked like nothing had broken. Once I was finished unloading the truck, I took a beat to actually look around the workshop, studying some of the pieces in progress Natasha had set off to the side of the room.

“What?” she asked, watching me run my hands over a freshly sanded tabletop. It reminded me of being back in the shop with Papa Davis. He’d started out as a carpenter, and even after he retired from Saunders Furniture, he still loved getting hands-on and doing woodworking. He’d taught me so much.

“Nothing,” I said, quick to assure her I wasn’t judging. “You just…You really have a gift. Sort of reminds me of my grandfather’s work.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Thanks.”

“You’ve got a lot of great pieces here.”

“I’m always designing,” she said. “I’ve got about a million more ideas—the problem is just finding people to buy them.”

“There should be a line of people here trying to buy your work,” I insisted, scowling when she shook her head. “I mean it, Natasha.”

She flushed an even darker shade of red. I wandered closer, wondering what it would be like to stroke the blush from her cheeks.

“Maybe one day,” she said. “Until then, I’m happy designing for Saunders Furniture.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you?”

She nodded. “I feel like I’m settling in, and like the team is warming up to me.”

“But you’d prefer to be making your own things?”

She shrugged. “Of course. There’s something special about being hands-on, about crafting the actual furniture myself. I think it makes the pieces that much more special.”