Page 8 of Saving Her Curves

He gave a little chuckle at her muttered, “I bet you have.”

She moved her finger until it touched the side of his hand. “I’m assuming these are from getting nicked while you carve?” She traced the thin, silver scars that zigzagged his skin.

The moment Skye touched him, a tingle raced the length of Hank’s arm. He turned his hand so that their palms touched. His thumb smoothed across the back of hers. “And I’m guessing these are from the wire and solder you use.” His warm words were a statement and not a question.

“Yes.” She heard the catch in her voice but couldn’t prevent it. The touch of his hand beneath hers, the smooth slide of his thumb across her knuckles was electrifying. It was such a simple caress to generate so much heat.

He let go of her hand and turned his attention back to the piece of wood he held. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. I know what it’s like when the creative urge hits.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think I could see some of your work?”

She hadn’t seen anything in his cabin except a few prints and paintings on the wall. He had no clutter or excess decorations. She understood why—maybe. She seldom wore the jewelry she made herself. She touched the necklace that hung around her throat. This particular piece had been made by her mother, given to her on the last birthday they’d shared. She rarely took it off.

Hank nodded absently, his mind on an idea for the piece of basswood he held in his hand. “I have a shop out back. If you’re game for trudging through the snow, I’ll show you some of my carvings in the morning.”

“Do you ever sell your pieces?”

Hank shrugged his big shoulders. “Not really. If someone asks me for a particular piece, I’ll make it for them. It costs me nothing. I get most of the wood from my land.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” Skye protested. “I know you can put hours in a piece. Even one as small as that.” She motioned at the wood in his hand.

“True,” Hank agreed, “but it’s hard to put a price on doing something you love, you know?”

She laughed. “Yes, I do. That’s why you need someone else helping you. Supporting you.” She hesitated. “If you feel comfortable, I’d love to put some of your things in my shop.”

One dark brow rose. “You haven’t seen anything I’ve made.”

“I believe in you.”

The words made something inside of Hank shift. It had been a very long time since he’d felt anything close to unconditional acceptance. When he’d gotten into trouble as a teen, his mother had been at her wit’s end. He knew she’d been worrying about him, but she hadn’t protested when the judge had given him the option of jail or joining the military. He knew she’d been relieved that he’d become someone else’s responsibility. It had been the best thing that had happened to him, as well as his mom and little sister. It had set him on the right path and allowed him to send some money home. Which, in turn, had taken some of the burden away from his mom being a single parent. Despite the old saying, money couldn’t buy happiness, but it could buy security and put food on the table.

The touch of her hand on his drew him away from those memories. They were no longer painful, but they were darker than he cared to admit.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he caught her hand up in his again. “It’s okay. That’s a very nice thing to say. Thank you.”

He rose from the couch and pulled a small bench from the side of the fireplace. Skye hadn’t seen it there. He placed it off to the side and then grabbed a piece of cardboard from a stack she also hadn’t noticed. It was no wonder, she thought, the man himself had been her primary focus since she’d first laid eyes on him.

Within minutes, he was lost in his art. Skye watched him work for quite a while, then felt herself growing sleepy as he continued the mesmerizing stroke of knife against wood. She settled more comfortably against the large leather arm of the couch, letting her eyelids drift shut.

Hank knew the moment his guest fell asleep. The heat from her gaze disappeared. He hesitated, knowing he should probably wake her up. She most likely had a mild concussion, but he didn’t have the heart to rouse her just yet. He’d keep a close eye on her—not that he’d been able to stop looking at her anyway.

He allowed himself to get lost in his carving once more, making shallow cuts in the wood. He knew what he was going to make. He also knew he needed to take his time. He glanced at Skye, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Just like he knew he needed to take his time with her. There was something drawing him to her, despite his best efforts to resist. Something he didn’t understand but embraced wholeheartedly.

Maybe it was the snow and the fact that, for now, he felt as though they were the only two people in the world. And they were. In their own world, teeming with possibilities…and temptation.

As he watched her, she mumbled in her sleep. Then, as if sensing his eyes on her, hers opened. She blinked a couple of times as if trying to focus. “Hello.”

“Hello. Are you about ready for bed?” He put down his knife and the carving that was only beginning to take on any type of shape.

“Oh, is it that late?”

“Late enough.” He picked up the cardboard that had caught his shavings and threw them in the fire. It blazed for a few seconds. After putting his things away, he walked to the door and rummaged in the bag he’d left there before coming to stand by the couch. “Can you sit up? I want to check your eyes.”

“Sure.” Skye did as he asked. “I don’t think I have a concussion. My head doesn’t even hurt now.”

“We’d better make sure.” He squatted in front of her. They were so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. He clicked on the penlight and said, “Look over my shoulder.” He spent several moments checking her reactions before rising. “I think you are good to go.”

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