Page 21 of Fearless Bond

“What? No?” I echoed.

“Those are prime oak pieces. I’ll check the humidity and put them to dry. Some might be good for the shop already.”

“The shop?”

“My woodshop.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following.”

Barclay wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and threw it over his shoulder. “I have a woodworking shop.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the large barn outside.

“Like for furniture and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you make furniture from that? It looked damaged.”

“Of course you can.” He gestured to the kitchen table. I hadn’t paid much attention to it before, but now I looked properly. The thick top was puzzled together from five irregular pieces of wood with varying colors and textures. It looked costly, like something from an interior design store my father wouldn’t sneer at.

“You made that?”

“Most of the furniture in here is my own work.”

I glanced around with new interest. “Even the chairs?”

“Sure. The cabinet doors were here when I bought the place, just like the built-in wardrobes in the hall and in my bedroom. The rest is mine.”

I ran a hand over the back of a chair. The wood had a beautiful structure with reddish circles and dark, sealed cracks. The polished surface felt like satin against my hand.

“That’s incredible. It must have taken hundreds of hours.”

Barclay shrugged. “Been doing it for years. I use scrap wood, trees that were killed by storms and lightning or charred in forest fires, and whatever local folks give me.”

“Do you make a living from it?”

He offered me a smirk. “I don’t have a pool or a majordomo, but I do okay.”

“I guess you have no use for a pool up here anyway.” I pointed at the window. It was snowing again. “But a hot tub would be nice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I sell a big piece to one of the hotels in Green Peaks.”

He was smiling at me, appearing not nearly as grumpy as he had before. His brown eyes twinkled with golden light. The silence stretched, and I didn’t know what to say. Every question in my head felt either too personal or sexually inappropriate.

“Anyway,” Barclay began, rocking on his heels. I waited for him to continue talking, but he didn’t.

“I’ve been keeping you from work,” I finally said, proud I’d found a neutral sentence.

“Oh. That’s fine.”

“I can…” I gestured to the guest bedroom awkwardly.

“Um. I’ll be in the shed.” He waved around. “Just… do whatever you want to do. Like at home. I don’t have a TV, but there are books and stuff. Or… no stuff. Just books. Yeah.” He grimaced, then spun around and stomped off.

“Thanks!” I called after him.

I did look at the books. Not because I was keen to read—I doubted I could focus—but I was nosy. While Barclay worked in the shed, I went through his library and inspected every piece of furniture in his home except in his bedroom. I didn’t dare to snoop around in there. The scent near that door had my stomach fluttering.

Barclay returned to heat up a defrosted casserole for dinner, ate mostly in silence, and returned to his shed. It felt like he was avoiding me. But I was probably just taking personally something that had nothing to do with me. He had an actual job, and I’d been monopolizing his time. I tried to focus on reading, but I got caught up in thoughts of Barclay reading the same book. I imagined what he’d say if I asked him about it. Except he didn’t come back. Through the kitchen window, I saw the light coming from his shop.

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