“How many volunteers do you have? I ask, interrupting him.
The man frowns. “It varies. This week has been so hot, less are coming out. Plus, it’s summer. We have many more volunteers during the school year when kids are trying to pad their college applications. Companies also seem to remind their employees to volunteer around the holidays, so it’s a bit scarce today.” He wipes a bead of sweat that falls from his temple. “You ready for a quick tour?” He takes several steps forward.
I take another look at Ace, finding her watching as the instructor uses the miter saw in demonstration.
This is going to be a disaster. There’s no way I’m going to be able to focus on anything with her here, especially not when they’ve tasked her with a power tool that could easily cause so much damage to her.
“Do the volunteers need to have experience with some of these tools before they use them?” I ask, still not moving.
He shrugs. “It’s best if they do, but many who have experience want to be compensated if they’re going to be doing this kind of work. You’re what my wife would call a unicorn. We try and do the best with prepping all volunteers, and everyone signs release forms, so we…”
The moment Ace’s instructor leaves and she lifts a board, my attention veers solely to her. I don’t even recall making the decision to move, and yet as she slides the board forward to make her first cut, I’m there beside her. I place my hand on top of her gloved one that’s preparing to squeeze the saw to life. She gasps with surprise, and instantly releases the saw before looking up. Recognition has her smiling. I know this expression well—hell, I’ve memorized it. The tiny dimple, the straight rows of her teeth, how her chin dips when it’s genuine and rises when it’s not. I know the curve of her lips, and how she closes her eyes when her smile turns into a laugh. I know it all.
Weeks ago, it was easier not to return the same smile, but it continues to be more difficult. Currently, it’s not. I saw her boyfriend over just yesterday, and being here was my opportunity to do something that would get me out of the house and away from my persistent thoughts of her. “You can’t cross your arms while using this thing. You’ll cut your arm off.” My voice is gruff and unforgiving.
Her smile falls and her big brown eyes grow wide. “But he said I need to anchor it so the shorter piece doesn’t hit me.”
“Use your left hand to guide the saw.”
“But I’m right-handed.”
I stare at her blankly.
Ace drops her chin and rolls her eyes. “I see your dark and broody side is back.” She raises her eyebrows, and repositions her hands on the saw and piece of wood she’s holding. “You can go. I’ve got this. Tom’s already shown me how to do this.”
“Clearly he hadn’t shown you very well. You were about to—”
“Cut off my arm. I know. You already mentioned it.” She moves her gaze to the saw, dismissing me.
I should take this opportunity and go. Get the tour from the volunteer who checked me in, and find a task that will have me working on the opposite side of the yard. But Ace has become an itch I need to scratch. Have to scratch. I circle the table so I’m standing beside her. The scent of her coconut shampoo fills my nose, then I get the sweetness of her perfume, and I take a step closer to her. Ace turns her head, glancing at me. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I can tell by the way her body gently sways closer to me, and how her shoulders round that she’s affected by my presence.
I’m so tempted to reach my hand down and cup her ass—to pull her toward me and kiss her until logic and reason are silenced by how badly I want her. However, the landmines associated with her practically glow on her forehead, reminding me of all the reasons doing so would only cause things to blow up in my face.
I need contact with her. Something. Anything. I reach forward and rest my hand on her lower back. “I’ll hold it. That way it will be more comfortable for you.”
She looks at me, her familiar smile absent. Perhaps she’s working just as hard as I am to understand my motives. “You really don’t have to babysit me.”
“I thought we decided we were friends. Friends help each other, right?” I was the moron who’d slapped that label on us. I’ve never had any interest in being her friend. I spent eight years living beside her and dutifully ignoring her as an endless train of guys from school worked to impress her and vied for her time. I swore I wouldn’t be one of them. Wouldn’t jump through hoops in an attempt to gain her attention. Yet, since I’ve been back it seems like she’s everywhere.
Skepticism is apparent in her slanted eyes, but Ace shakes her head, and the edges of her lips tease into a smile that’s even more distracting than the last. Then she leans into me even further, and my hand on her back constricts. We’re silent and still for a moment, and though it’s too warm to be standing this close while dressed as we are, neither of us attempts to move.
“Why don’t you cut this piece? It makes me more nervous to have you holding it.”
“You can use your right hand this way.”
“I realize that, but I’m worried I’ll accidentally hurt you.”
I stare at her, listening to her words play on repeat in my head as they slowly sink past comprehension.
What if I accidentally hurt her?
What if I mess this up and she hates me?
I shake my head. “You won’t hurt me. Grip the saw with your right hand, and just slowly lower the blade. If you bring it down too fast, the wood will splinter and it won’t be a clean cut.”
Ace pulls in a deep breath and reaches for the saw again, creating a small cushion of space between us that I close by stepping closer to her, my chest against her shoulder as I hold the end piece she’ll be slicing off. She purses her lips with determination, and grips the handle of the saw. When it comes to life, she glances at me once, then focuses on lowering the blade directly over the pencil line. She should be wearing safety goggles and ear protection, but those details are far in the recesses of my mind as I watch her complete her first cut and slowly raise the blade back up and turn it off.
Ace doesn’t smile with triumph or completion, instead, she inspects the edge like the perfectionist she is, running her gloved-thumb over the clean edge.
“Like a pro,” I tell her.
Before she begins any practice cuts, we go in search of goggles and ear protection, and then we find some scraps. She’s a quick study and within no time, looks like she’s skilled at using the power tool. I enjoy the time, not ready to tell her she’s more than ready to begin, because I’m enjoying the excuse to remain so close to her.
“Want to help me with a couple of these?” she asks. I doubt she realizes that when she lowers her lashes and looks up at me like she is, that it’s nearly impossible for me to focus on what she’s saying.
Ace reaches for my waist, and for a second I consider what would happen if she were the one to make the first move. If she kissed me right now, would it deactivate all the risks associated with her?
She unclips my measuring tape from my tool belt and smirks, like she knows I’d stopped breathing. She makes quick work of measuring a piece of wood, and then proceeds to cut it.
The volunteer wearing plaid approaches us as Ace is measuring another piece of wood. I’m fairly certain I’m only standing here for my own sanity at this point—she hasn’t asked me for help or even direction since we went over the steps together and she repeated them back to me for clarification.
“You ready to get started?” he asks.