Page 22 of Storytime and Sawdust

"I missed you," she murmurs against my shirt. "Even though you were right here, I missed you."

"I'm sorry." I press my lips to the top of her head. "I'm not good at this."

She looks up, a hint of her usual playfulness returning. "Good thing I'm an excellent teacher, then."

The tightness in my chest dissolves completely, replaced by something warm and hopeful. I cup her face gently, thumb brushing away the lingering tear track on her cheek.

"I think I might need private lessons," I say, surprising myself with the teasing tone.

Molly's smile blooms, bright and genuine. "I happen to have an opening in my schedule. Tomorrow, maybe? Dinner at my place?"

"I'd like that."

She rises on tiptoe, pressing a quick, soft kiss to my lips before stepping back. "Don't be late. And don't you dare bring doubts about being enough, Cal Rhodes. Not to my table."

The kiss leaves me momentarily speechless, but I manage to nod. "Yes, ma'am."

Her laugh is like sunshine breaking through clouds. "Now help me straighten these books. The reading nook might be magical, but it doesn't clean up after itself."

As we work side by side, the easy rhythm between us returning, I glance at the reading tree that brought us together. Children still explore its branches and hideaways, lost in worlds of imagination and possibility.

Harold was wrong. This isn't impractical or excessive. It's exactly what it needs to be: a place where stories begin. Including, perhaps, our own.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MOLLY

The library is quiet after the grand opening, a stark contrast to the joyful chaos of the morning. Children's fingerprints mark the fairy doors, evidence of tiny explorers who couldn't resist touching everything. Books sit slightly askew on shelves, bookmarks peeking from pages where adventures wait to be continued tomorrow.

I move through the space, straightening cushions and gathering forgotten hair clips, a ritual that soothes my racing thoughts. The reading nook exceeded every expectation—the children's faces when the cloth was pulled away, the gasps from parents, even Harold's grudging nod of approval. A success by any measure.

Yet something feels unfinished.

Cal.

He came to the opening after all, standing quietly at the edges, watching everything with those intense blue eyes. When he finally approached me, the wooden heart he pressed into my palm said more than his halting words. We'd made tentative peace, plans for dinner, a fragile bridge across the distance his withdrawal had created.

But I need more than peace. I need certainty.

I finish my cleanup, say goodnight to Diana, and drive to Cal's workshop address—the one I've memorized without meaning to.

Rhodes Custom Woodworking sits in an old brick building, surrounded by trees. Light spills from windows despite the late hour, Cal's truck parked outside. My heart thuds as I park beside it.

I grip the steering wheel. Why am I here? We have dinner plans tomorrow—a sensible way to explore whatever's growing between us.

But I'm tired of shrinking myself to make others comfortable. Tired of wondering if my feelings are too much.

I climb out, wooden heart in pocket, and approach. Through the window, Cal bends over his workbench, strong shoulders curved in concentration. I knock.

He looks up surprised, sets down his tools, and opens the door. "Molly. Is everything okay?"

"I don't know. Can I come in?"

The workshop smells of sawdust and lemon oil. Tools line walls, projects in various stages occupy workbenches.

"I wasn't expecting company," Cal says.

"I didn't know I was coming until I was halfway here." I face him. "The reading nook is perfect. Everything we dreamed."

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