Page 22 of Bourbon & Bonfires

“Ah, there she is.”

“What’s that mean?”

“The woman I met on New Year’s Eve. The one who is witty and slightly sarcastic. The one whose smile causes the edges of her eyes to crinkle. That woman.”

“First, they’re called crow’s feet, and it’d be really nice if you wouldn’t talk about my wrinkles. And I’m always witty and sarcastic. It’s part of my charm. I’ve just been kind of ... I don’t know, avoiding you a little?”

“Because you thought I was a cheating bastard?” She nods sheepishly, looking at her lap. “Is that the kind of man you thought I was after spending time with me, Addison?”

“Gah, Addy, please. When you say Addison it makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

“Trouble? I can see you being a little bit of trouble, Addison.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes at my use of her full name again. Instead of responding, I go about eating my lunch while engaging my impromptu date in conversation. She pretends to reluctantly help me with my fries when I slide my plate toward her as she tells me about her move here and how her new job is going. I make sure to tell her how much I’m enjoying working with Mason even if I’m not one hundred percent certain he showers regularly.

After tossing a twenty on the table, I stand and hold my hand out for Addison to take. She hesitates enough for me to know she’s not the kind of woman to easily trust. I knew this already from some of the stories she told me on New Year’s Eve and after her immediate assumption I was a cheater. Hoping I didn’t pause too long before sliding my hand in my pocket and step aside to give Addison room to pass me as she stands from the booth.

Once outside, I stop and turn to Addison. “Where’s your car?”

“We walked here after yoga,” she says, holding up a mat.

“Got it. Well, I’m just over here. Want a ride to your car?”

“I think I can manage the hundred feet or so to my car, but thanks,” she teases, and the moment she smiles and looks up at me through her long lashes, it’s my turn to blush.

“Well, thanks for accepting my apology, and I promise to be less bitchy the next time I see you, Landon.”

And without a goodbye, Addison Sinclair turns on her heel and walks away from me. I may be a simple man, but I swear there’s a little more pep in her step than usual. But, when she turns to look over her shoulder and catches my eye, I know for a fact there’s more and maybe, just maybe, it’s all for me.

Mason has been working with me for a few weeks, and I’m as surprised as anyone else how well we work together. The very evident chip on his shoulder from two weeks ago seems to be less of an issue. Last week I told him if he didn’t walk in here with a piss-off attitude or slam shit like it doesn’t cost me a lot of money, I’d consider letting him use the saw. Turns out, Mason isn’t much different than I was as a kid—motivated by simplicity. Don’t be a dick and you get to do things. It’s pretty simple.

“I’m here. It’s Friday and I didn’t slam shi ... I mean, stuff. You promised, Landon.”

“Dude, relax. You’ve been here seven minutes. I thought you were going to some school dance or some shit?”

“That’s not till seven. I have almost three hours. Are you going to hold up your end of the bargain, or what?” he asks, crossing his arms and widening his stance. I want to laugh, but that’ll probably piss the kid off, and I don’t have time for that. Instead, I motion for him to follow me and gesture toward the safety glasses I laid out next to the saw. A huge smile takes over his face and I feel a sense of pride knowing offering this kid some work has made a huge difference in his new life in Lexington.

Saying Mason is a natural with the saw is an overstatement. His first few attempts to cut a straight line aren’t exactly, well, straight. Once I remind him to breathe and take it slow, he improves greatly. The sense of pride he shows when he sets and resets the blade on his own makes me honored to be the one teaching him.

After a few goes with the saw, I turned my attention back to the dining set I’m working on for Spencer. I prefer sanding by hand on most pieces, but considering this table is at least three times the size of any I’ve sat at, the power sander came out of its storage space. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I realize we’ve been working hard for a few hours.

“Mason, it’s six thirty; you should probably call your uncle to find out where he’s at or you’ll be late for the dance,” I shout over the music, and Mason gives me a thumbs up before picking up his phone. In seconds, I hear a plethora of swears, and a can goes flying across the garage.

I turn off the sander and throw off my safety glasses. Turning to face Mason, I’m ready to lay into him when I see the look on his face. Distraught. Upset. Angry. I take a few tentative steps toward him. If I’ve learned anything working with Mason, it’s that teenagers are a little like feral cats and must be handled with caution.

“What’s wrong? Do you need a ride?”

“No. My mom’s coming.”

“Okay,” I reply confused. “Is that a bad thing? I mean, are you fighting with your mom?”

“No. My dad.”

His dad. In the weeks Mason has been working with me, he has only mentioned his father a few times. Normally, it’s in passing, and the minute he realizes he’s said anything, he changes the subject. Never have I seen this type of reaction, so I’m a little taken aback.

“I’m going to need more words, kid.”

“Ugh, I hate him.” I step closer to Mason, and when he looks up at me, I’m slapped in the face with the reality that regardless of how mature Mason is most of the time or how tough he acts, he’s still a kid. A kid who looks like his entire world just ended.

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