Page 16 of Shy Girl
“I-I create furniture from p-pallet wood.” I waved to the half-spawned creation in the middle of the room that hadn’t quite come together the way I wanted it to. “I needed to m-make some extra money in high school to b-b-buy a car, but I didn’t have many options. S-s-so I found some old pallets and st-started to . . . make stuff. I still d-do it now for a . . . p-project I have.”
Even me saying the wordshigh schoolmade my heart flutter. Did he even know we went to school together? The mountain school world wasn’tthatbig, but we were grades apart. If he did remember, then what did he recall about me? I shuddered to think.
Jayson advanced into the room and circled my little wreckage of creativity. Heat crawled up my cheeks at the thought of him judging my work, but I kept my chin tilted back. Showing it to Jayson was good practice. If I wanted store owners in Jackson City to sell my woodwork, wouldn’t they also inspect and judge?
No, it would be different.
He stood up to better inspect a particularly flaky piece of wood. Somehow, it felt more intimate and scary with Jayson running his finger along the edges. Like he peered into my soul as if it were a crystal ball.
“That is so cool,” he said.
“W-what?”
“This is awesome.” He grinned and gestured around us. His gaze fell onto the far wall, where Bethany had helped me stage a few of my finished works so I could take photos to send to the businesses that I wanted to sell them. “Theyare awesome.”
“It’s . . .”
Sort of desperate,I thought. The pallet furniture was a means to make money to meet my biological father. A man that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t want me to exist. The fact that I wanted to force him to acknowledge me was desperate enough. Scrapping together furniture out of pallets? Seemed a step farther.
“Inventive,” he finished for me, and said it firmly. I didn’t have the courage, or ability, to correct him or try to change his mind.
The need for funds hadn’t diminished over the years, which is why I continued to play with pallet wood design today, although I was in a far better financial position than I’d ever been before. Maverick and Bethany paid a generous salary for a barista, and I felt certain they cut the rent down on the loft when I applied. Why they’d be so kind to someone they hardly knew and were not obligated to help, I had no idea. Nor did I question it, because being a barista gave me the space to try out the pallet furniture.
“Th-thanks.” I stepped farther into the room. “I’m p-p-prepping a few pieces to see if they’ll s-sell in Jackson City.”
“Sweet.”
He said it low and quiet, as though with reverence. His enthusiasm seemed sincere. He ran a hand over one of the projects that I’d recently set aside out of sheer frustration and a need to unblock the design in my head. The plans for a chair with a pull out drawer on the bottom and shelves on the sides seemed so clear in my mind, but hadn’t puzzled together the way I wanted it to be in reality.
Which was justsolike life.
“You’re sanding each board?” he asked with a glance to the powder on the floor. Was that surprise or curiosity in his tone? I couldn’t tell. I chewed on my bottom lip before nodding, uneasy at his questions. No one had ever cared. Beneath my surprise, however, was a layer of excitement.
Someonecaredabout my pallet work!
“Yes. A p-planer would be so much easier,” I said, then let the rest of the sentence drop.But I can’t afford to buy more tools. Not until I know this furniture will sell.
“Do you have a hard time getting the boards to match evenly?”
“S-sometimes. P-p-pallets are more rough than uneven.” My fist flexed at my side, where bandaids dotted different fingers thanks to slivers from a particularly rough batch Rick had sent. “The s-s-s-sanding is . . . k-kind of annoying.”
He smirked. “I bet.”
Jayson crouched over a few pieces again, his gaze darting around as he inspected the whole mess. His interest surprised me. Did he like to work with his hands? Build? For me, piecing things together with hammer and nails had been more than a hobby growing up. It had been the only way I could create safety and escape. Tree houses. Forts. A bed with room to crawl underneath it. Anything to create structure in a world that felt as loose as jello.
Now, my penchant for fiddling with board and nail and hammer could be the answer to . . . well . . .me. It would provide the extra income to get me to Texas and close this gaping door in my life.
Jayson straightened and put his hands on his hips. I swallowed hard and turned away so my gaze didn't idle on the broad shoulders or perfectly sculpted chest beneath his casual t-shirt. Seeing him without his deputy uniform made him so totally . . . normal.
“Do you take custom orders?” he asked.
“S-sure?”
His eyes glimmered with amusement. He shot back, “Is that a question?”
“Yes.”
“Have you never received a custom order?”
