Page 30 of Rhett

“That’s just going to make me start arriving an hour early for everything we’re supposed to do.”

His words make me stop. Rhett must not notice because he bumps me, chest against my back, the warmth of his body radiating into me. I swear he almost smells like black birch, a woodsy scent mixed with a slight hint of wintergreen.

My skin prickles, which isn’t a good sign at all.I didn’t like that, I didn’t like that, I didn’t like that.

“Shit. Sorry.” Rhett steps away.

“Did you spill your coffee?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Good. And don’t show up an hour early. I would feel awful if you did that.” I should have thought through my teasing. I can see Rhett being so worried about being late that he would rather sit in the truck for an hour than risk it. “I would never try to make you late on purpose. I promise.”

He gives me a slow nod like he’s unsure what to make of my vehemence. I wish there was a way I could show Rhett that he doesn’t have to be perfect. That he doesn’t always have to try so hard. Always being on time, getting the right gift, or being who you think you’re supposed to be isn’t what makes a person worthy.

“All right,” he finally agrees.

“Good. Now let’s get to work. This is going to be fun.”

And while I always enjoy my job, somehow, I know I’ll enjoy it even more today.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rhett

I’ve been upsince three in the morning. I stressed myself out too much to sleep, and I’ve had an upset stomach just as long, but as soon as Tripp and I get to work, all that fades into the background.

We’re working in the kitchen, building custom cabinetry. The wood is in the garage, along with Tripp’s saws and other materials. The sound of the machines, the feel of tools in my hands, and the experience of putting things together makes my blood run warmer, makes the nausea turn into a fluttering giddiness, sparks of excitement going from my chest to the tips of my fingers. It’s silly to love building this much, to feel some of the weights that hold down my soul lighten with something so fucking simple, yet it’s incredible at the same time.

This is different from working in my shop. This is someone’s home. Where they might raise their children and have dinners together and friends over. Where they’ll laugh while pulling wineglasses from the cabinet I built, and the walls of his house will hold what I hope is their happiness.

And I’m a part of this because of Tripp Cassidy.

I look up, let my gaze settle on him as he’s fitting a piece of wood into a corner. He’s fully absorbed in what he’s doing, his jawline tight in concentration. He’s got red stubble along it that matches his hair. It’s warmed up in the house. He’s taken off his flannel, the muscles in his arms flexing, veins prominent in his forearms and hands. Tripp’s skin is fair, and he’s got freckles dotting the landscape of his limbs.

Why can’t I stop watching him, and why is my pulse suddenly faster? Maybe because Tripp is so…kind. I haven’t ever felt like a very kind person myself, though I wish it wasn’t true. While I’ve had plenty of people be nice to me throughout my life, it often feels like it’s because I’m a Swift, could help them with school, to get ahead, or to stay out of trouble. It’s all been because of what I can give someone and not who I am, which is likely, again, because I’m not a very good person, but Tripp doesn’t seem to need anything from me.

It’s almost like he’s been spending time with me simply because he wants to, because he enjoys it.

He looks my way, his smile automatic. Inexplicable heat washes over me, making me turn away.

That was…really fucking strange.

“What?” Tripp asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, then randomly ask, “Should I call you Cass?”

He stops what he’s doing and gives me his full attention. “Do you want to call me Cass?”

Trippcomes naturally to me, but my brothers, their partners, and everyone else around town calls him Cass. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“I’m good with Tripp or Cass. I want you to call me what you feel comfortable calling me.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue with him, to find out the specifics of what he wants so I don’t feel like I’m doing the wrong thing, but I force myself to ignore my inclination. I asked a question, and Tripp answered it. Pushing the issue will just make him get frustrated with me for my peculiarities. “Okay,” I reply, trying not to focus on how difficult it is for me to take him at his word.

We get back to work, the time flying. Tripp and I seem to get things done well as a team. We don’t have any issues, and whenI try to take over like I’m known for doing, he’s patient, and I wrestle myself into relaxing.

It’s one in the afternoon when Tripp says, “We should take a lunch break.”

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