Page 23 of Once Upon A Small Town Secret
She looks around at the chaos on the floor where there are lines of loose wiring, little rubber tubes in a variety of colors, some stray coffee cups scattered around.
“Here it is,” she murmurs.
“They’re going to clean all this up before they go, aren’t they?” I ask, looking at the mess left behind by the electrician.
“He said they would, yeah,” she says, handing me the ruler. “They finished in here, and they’re working in the kitchen now, so I’ll just have to wait to do any work in there until next week. But I’m free to work in here, so I thought I’d get a jump on it.”
I crouch beside her, bracing the ruler against the wall where the last strip ends. “Seven centimeters exactly, huh? Not six-point-nine, not seven-point-one?”
Her lips twitch. “Don’t start. I mean it—exactly seven. It’ll drive me crazy.”
“Got it.” I tear off a strip of tape, lining it up against the mark I’ve made. The adhesive rips free with a sharp sound that echoes in the quiet space, and I press it to the wall, smoothing it down so there’s not a single wrinkle.
She watches me over my shoulder like a hawk. “Make sure it’s perfectly straight all the way down. No wrinkles either, the paint will bleed. If it curves even a little, I’ll have to redo it, and I’ll be mad at you forever.”
I glance over my shoulder at her, grinning. “Forever’s a long time.”
My grin fades as I become aware of how close she is.
She’s leaned in, one hand on my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of her body at my back, the faint tickle of her breath when she exhales.
Paige must realize how close we are too because she freezes in place, so close I can see her pupils dilate.
“Good,” she finally says quietly, her voice near my ear. “That’s exactly how it should look.”
Then, quickly, she straightens and steps back, dropping her hand from my shoulder.
The absence of her heat is immediate, and my pulse is thudding in my ears as I watch her walk to the other wall to keep working.
Chapter Eleven
Paige
I keep my eyes on the wall in front of me, like if I focus hard enough on the perfect placement of this next strip of tape, I can erase the fact that I just touched him, practically pressed myself into him.
God, why did I do that? Why did my hand have to land on his shoulder? I could’ve just pointed. Or stood two feet back like a normal person. But no, apparently I needed to get close enough to feel the heat coming off him, close enough to smell the faint scent of soap and the hops from the bar clinging to his shirt.
I measure the gap between two strips, press the tape to the baseboard, and smooth it upward with my palm, making sure it’s straight. My fingers are steady, but my mind isn’t.
Of course he didn’t say anything about it. He just looked at me with that half-grin, the one that makes me feel like he’s in on a joke I don’t know. And then I froze like an idiot—because apparently physical proximity short-circuits my brain when it comes to Ben Hoffman.
I tear off the next piece of tape with a little more force than necessary, lining it up against the ruler. The adhesive snaps in the quiet, and I smooth it up the wall, forcing myself to keep the spacing exact.
From across the room, I can hear him doing the same—rip, press, smooth. The rhythm of it settles me a bit as we work in silence, but every so often I catch myself glancing over without meaning to.
And then I whip my attention back to the wall, muttering under my breath. I’m here to work. To make this bakery perfect. Not to get caught up in the way he looks under bright light with his sleeves pushed up and his head bent in concentration.
Focus, Paige. Just focus.
I smooth the last strip into place, my palm running up the wall one final time. The edge is sharp, the spacing perfect—exactly the way I want it.
Across the room, there’s a soft thump as Ben drops the roll of tape on the ground, and when I glance over, he’s straightening, rolling his shoulders like he’s been hunched too long.
“All done,” he says, stepping back to survey his wall.
“Me too.” I peel the tape from my fingers and drop the scraps into the trash bag beside me.
For a second, we just stand there, each of us looking at our respective walls like we’re pretending not to notice each other. The space feels strangely small now, the quiet more distracting than ever without the constant rip and press of tape.
