Page 60 of Unbroken

TWENTY-SEVEN

Blakely

Devon didn’t hearme open and close the back gate over the sound of the saw. I stopped just inside the garage, and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

I hadn’t seen his workshop yet, and although my knowledge of what a woodshop looked like was limited, I knew it was impressive. There were handmade wood cabinets and workbenches lining the perimeter, and tools hanging from a pegboard nailed to the wall. Very large, slightly daunting equipment was everywhere, including on top of the large table Devon stood in front of.

But as impressive as his workshop was, it was Devon that I couldn’t tear my gaze from. Unabashedly, my eyes raked over him. It wasn’t like he’d noticed me yet anyway.

He had wireless earbuds in his ears and sweat gathered at his temple just below a backward black baseball hat that covered his red hair. A few strands still peeked out the front, or what would have been the back.

I was gawking, jaw slack, but I didn’t care.

He was wearing jeans and a brown belt thathugged his hips, but his shirt was missing. His massive shoulders and broad chest gleamed with sweat, and the thick, dense muscles beneath the array of colorful tattoos flexed with each movement he made.

He leaned forward slightly and pushed the wood through the saw blade. Even behind the clear safety glasses, I could see the depth of concentration in his eyes.

The saw cut off, but he didn’t look up. He straightened and fished his discarded T-shirt out of his back pocket, using it to wipe the sweat that had collected on his forehead. At full height, the image of him was even more unsettlingly perfect.

Two years had worn well on him. He wasn’t ripped, and that wasn’t a bad thing. He was massive and powerful and…

His gaze caught mine, dark and confused. A flush of embarrassment heated my cheeks, but I quickly schooled my features as he removed his safety glasses and tugged his earbuds free. I clasped my hands behind my back and sauntered into the workshop. The smell of wood, rich and hearty, surrounded me.

Like I was perusing an art gallery, I walked around the perimeter of the shop. I pretended like the tools and gadgets and thingamabobs were the most intriguing things I’d ever seen.

Whether I knew what any of it did, the entire setup was impressive. It was obvious Devon had invested a lot of time and money into the space.

As I walked, I could feel Devon’s eyes tracking me. His attention danced over my skin, and I tried not to let it show how much it affected me. He spun to continue watching me as I walked behind him. When I made the horseshoe, I wasn’t yet ready to talk. So, I went back around.

Finally, when I was back on the other side of the large table he’d constructed in the middle of the room, I stopped.

“This place is kind of…beautiful,” I said, unable to think of a better, more apt word. It wasn’t untrue, but calling a workshop beautiful felt strange.

A hint of a smile graced Devon’s lips, and I relaxed.

“What are you working on?”

He glanced down at the length of wood he’d just cut and a small pile of similarly cut pieces next to it. “Nothing,” he said simply.

Eyebrows raised, I craned my neck forward and looked at the same wood. It definitely looked intentional and like it eventually would be something. But I dropped the subject.

Devon reached behind him and grabbed that same T-shirt, lifting his hat and wiping away more sweat. He replaced his hat and looked back at me. There was an unmistakable tugging in my gut as we stared at one another.

I took a deep, grounding breath and drew on the courage I’d felt minutes earlier that propelled me out of the back door and into the garage in the first place. But that courage was suddenly replaced by a swarm of butterflies in my stomach. And I began to second-guess the words on my tongue and how he might react.

It was going to feel worse not to speak up, though. I needed to try.

“So,” I said, but the word was distorted by the shaking of my voice. I took a second and tried again, still holding Devon’s unwavering gaze. “You broke up.”

It was hard to get a reaction out of Devon, but his eyes widened for a second, and if I hadn’t been watching him intently, I would’ve missed it.

“You didn’t say anything the other night,” I continued.

He glanced down at the T-shirt wrapped around his fists before he said, “No, I didn’t.”

“I wish you would’ve told me. We used to tell each other…everything.”

Something in my statement sparked his interest. He quickly whipped his head back up. Like the words were difficult to say, his jaw tensed and he jumped as he said, “We did, but me keeping my breakup from you is nothing compared to what you kept from me. What you kept from all of us.”

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