Page 166 of Coach
Far more than people ever did.
Out here, in the quiet, even broken things still had a chance.
I wiped the back of my wrist across my forehead, smearing sweat and dust together, and scowled down at the piece on the bench.
At the piece.
Thedamn piece.
I’d started it years ago, back when I thought I could wrestle beauty out of solid walnut with little more than my bare hands and sweat. Back then it was supposed to be a chair . . . then a sculpture . . . then something else when both those ideas felt wrong.
Now, I didn’t even know what it was anymore, just something I couldn’t finish, couldn’t leave alone either. I ran a hand over a curve I still couldn’t get right and grunted under my breath.
Grabbing a file, I went back to it, gritting my teeth and dragging the rasp across a stubborn spot until my wrist ached.
Another pass.
Another growl.
Another few grains of progress, maybe.
I tossed the file onto the bench and grabbed a finer piece of sandpaper, rolling it between my fingers to soften it up.
That’s when it happened.
Right on cue, like a hammer to the damn thumb.
The hot Italian from the fair popped into my mind’s eye.
I cursed low, the sound vibrating against the inside of my ribs, and scrubbed the sandpaper across the wood harder than necessary.
I saw his big brown eyes, that smile I could get drunk on if I wasn’t careful,
his ridiculous, lyrical accent, thick enough to trip over . . . or taste.
And the way he looked at me yesterday at the fair, like he didn’t know if he wanted to shake my hand or climb me like a tree.
I worked faster, desperate to keep my breathing steady, trying—and failing—to chase him out of my head.
It was no use.
I still saw him, plain as day, standing there with powdered sugar dusting his jeans and smeared across his olive skin, one hand cradling a sad-looking funnel cake, the other hovering like he didn’t know what todo with it—or himself.
All that energy. All that heat. All of it aimed right at me.
I shook my head, trying to dislodge it like water in my ears.
Nope.
I wasnotgoing there.
I knew his type.
Flirtatious and loud, the life of the party. He was the kind of guy who loved a good project—loved poking at something rough until it smoothed out, polished up real pretty.
But when it didn’t?
When the cracks showed?
