Page 26 of Lovingly Restored

He offers a triangular pencil to me. When I take it, our fingers brush, and a quick shiver runs up the top of my spine.

“Cold?”

I shake my head, examining the pencil that feels foreign in my hand.

“Alright, Ash. You look like you’re ready to carpent.”

My right elbow shoots backward into his gut. Of course his entire core is rock hard. He grunts, and the sound makes my stomach and thighs clench. Warm hands press against my shoulders, squaring my body to the workbench.

“No horseplay in my workshop,” he says against my right ear.

“Okay.” My voice sounds raspy.

“Make a mark... right...here.” He shows me the spot with his thumb, fingers splayed across the wood.

Whose hands are that big? It’s unnecessary. I brush the pencil along the board, his thumb as my guide.

“Harder. We need to see the mark while we cut.”

I go over it a few more times until the charcoal is visible. The pencil transfers to his skin, and I like the way it feels to make a mark on him.

“Wait,” he says.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his hand slide over my shoulder. I open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing when he grasps my braid in his fist and lifts it behind me so it’s well out of the way of the saw. He’s being safe. It’s his job. But it’s also incredibly sweet. He could have told me to move it myself, but he didn’t.

“I’m gonna start it up now. It’s not too loud until the wood hits the blade. Ready?”

As I nod the motion tugs my braid where it’s caught between my back and his broad chest. He flips a switch, and the machine takes on life. Even though I expect it, I startle and lean back. Isaac isrightbehind me. There’s nowhere else to go. Screaming steel blade or six plus feet of solid carpenter? It’s hardly a choice. Gratitude courses through me that the sound covers up my deep breaths and hammering heart. I swear I’m nottryingto turn this into some dirty late-night version ofBackyard Shakeup. That line between my personal and professional life is fading. I need to redraw it using a jumbo Sharpie and not some weird wood pencil. He stands his ground, letting me lean back on him, seemingly unbothered by the closeness. He taps two spots on the plank.

“Hands right here.”

I do as he says, and he covers my hands with his own, applying firm pressure and guiding the movement. Our hands working together to push the plank toward the inevitable. I watch with wide eyes as we inch closer and closer to the whirring metal teeth. They bite into the wood, the steady sound morphing into a high-pitched whine. Particles of dust float in the air around us, tickling my nose. It’s the smell of wet forest and winter air.

“What type of wood is this?” I ask, not daring to turn my head and take my eyes off our work. I’m mesmerized by the way the blade slices through the wood.

“What’s that?” His breath brushes the hairs on the side of my neck.

“WHAT TYPE OF–” the machine shuts off mid-sentence.

I pluck out one ear plug and start over at a more appropriate volume.

“What type of wood is it?” I brush my hands together and turn to face my new carpentry instructor.

“It’s cedar.”

Of course it is. The rich colour, the woodsy scent. “I should probably have known that.”

His eyebrows dip. “What’s the plant that runs along the side of the house in the shade?”

“Um.” I let my eyes close for a moment and picture the space. “English yew.”

“See. You know your stuff. I know mine.”

The professional persona force field I built around myself these last couple weeks is faltering. This little lesson, his care for my safety, him ensuring I understand that it’s okay to not understand everything. It’s like an electric fence has been shut down. I’m still not certain it’s safe to cross it though.

“I love the smell.”

“It’s manly, right?”

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