Page 43 of Brewbies
She’d chosen her footwear the same way she’d chosen her outfit. With Roy, not Ethan, in mind.
That she opted for her oldest pair of vintage pumps to appeal to the sexagenarian’s sensibilities felt a bitter irony now.
Ethan and his broad back ignored her, marching down the alley next to Roy’s shop with a purposeful stride. Glancing at the overflowing garbage can, Darby was sorely tempted to grab the slimy fast-food bag on top and hurl it at the back of Ethan’s fastidiously barbered head.
Only her total lack of accurate aim and a memory of how delicious the smooth skin of his neck had been just beneath his starched collar prevented her from exacting her well-deserved revenge.
She clomped faster when he turned the corner, shuddering as she splashed through a gritty puddle.
A blast of briny air off the water hit her full in the face as she rounded the corner after him just in time to see a door swing closed.
The load of ammunition cocked in both barrels of her sharp tongue abruptly jammed when she yanked open the door and saw what hid beyond it.
A woodshop.
Bright, airy, and so completelyhim.
Polished mahogany shelves. An impressive array of hand tools hanging from pegboards in surgically precise rows. Chisels, awls, handsaws, hammers, brushes, stains, and sanders.
Darby’s eyes moved over the impressive array of hand-carved items ranging from standard plaques to classic rocking chairs to elaborate porch swings. Every single object felt like an extension of Ethan Townsend’s actual person. Built with a sturdy economy. No extraneous ornamentation, no unnecessary frills. Only undeniable art in the expertness of its craftmanship. Of its precision.
And yet, seeing the pieces all together, something tugged at her.
“The welcome sign on the edge of town. You made it.”
Ethan’s reply was little more than a grunt. “Yep.”
Darby stepped out of her other shoe and bent to hook the strap with her finger. “I’m going to guess ‘Get Knotty’ wasn’t your choice of tag line?”
Ethan’s body tensed as if bracing for a blow. He didn’t answer at first, instead turning to the window overlooking the harbor. His gaze seemed distant, almost sad, as he watched a sailboat bobbing in the gentle waves against the backdrop of an orange sky at sunset.
Finally, almost reluctantly, he spoke into the silence between them. “Nope.”
Her need for cobblery outstripping her desire to needle him about it further, she decided to wander around the shop instead. The concrete floor was smooth and cool beneath her bare feet, and absent of so much as a single wood shaving.
“This a side hustle?” she asked, leaning in to examine a scale model of what looked to be a roomy banquet hall with a tall, tapered brick chimney.
“Nope,” he repeated.
“Then why do you make all this?”
A metallic clang echoed through the space as he elbowed a drawer in his large standing tool cupboard closed. “For fun.”
Darby leaned against the counter and narrowed her eyes on Ethan’s stony face. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yep.”
“I ask, because I’ve got to be honest, you look like you wouldn’t know fun if it leapt up and bit you in the taint.”
“Being bitten in the taint doesn’t sound much like fun.”
“Was that a joke?” Darby asked, blinking rapidly at him. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Maybe.” Ethan’s eyes lifted from the shoe he held as gently as a baby bird.
Darby felt a sympathetic twinge as she watched him turn it over in his big, capable hand to expose the denuded sole.
Those same fingers had buried themselves in her hair as he’d leaned in to devour her mouth. They’d compressed the column of her neck as he’d driven into her against the wall of his hotel room. They’d relieved her of the weight of her breasts as he buried himself to the hilt from behind, that deceptively tight mouth whispering the most delicious filth against her sweat-damp neck.
