I narrowed my eyes at him. He brought me a gift? What kind of gift would he have brought me, and why?
“It’s in the back of my truck.” He stared up at me, his dark eyes flicking down for a moment to my legs, before meeting my eyes again. I pretended not to notice. When I didn’t move, he asked, “Would you like to see it?”
“That depends. What is it?”
“You have to come outside and see.”
Rolling my eyes, I bent down and hung my stain rag over the edge of the bucket and climbed down. I hated that he showed up unannounced, for the obvious reasons, like, we weren’t friends. But another reason, which I hated to admit, was I knew I looked like hell. And staying true to Paul James, he looked amazing, as always. I was covered in sweat, no makeup, and my hair was knotted up on the top of my head. I’m pretty sure with the heat and the massive amount of sweating, my deodorant had already worn off since I had applied it that morning. So I probably didn’t smell that great either. He was finding something funny as he watched me, a humored smirk across his face.
“Something funny?” I sassed.
“You’re just cute when you’re annoyed.”
Cute? Why didn’t that word feel quite right? No woman wants to be cute—not really. Cute is for little girls and babies. Women want to be beautiful; sexy. Deciding not to acknowledge it, I followed him outside to his truck, noticing what looked like a table in the back. Dropping the tailgate, he spun around to me with a grin and motioned his hand as if to say, look at this.
“It’s a table,” I noted. It looked like a nice table, newly built, without any finishing to it. But what was I supposed to think about it?
“It’s yours,” he said.
I looked at him like he was nuts. “Mine?”
“I built it for you.”
I made an effort to school my expression. Was he serious? “You built this?” I asked, pointing to the table.
Scratching the back of his neck, he released an awkward chuckle. “You don’t like it?”
“No,” I quickly but calmly replied. “I’m just . . . confused.”
He cocked his head, twisting his mouth to the side. He knew what I meant. He knew all things considered, it was weird that he built me, of all people, a table. “You’ve heard I’m kind of a wanderer, right?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I answered, severely confused. We were just talking about a table, now we’re talking about traveling?
“Staying in one place makes me restless. Diving sates my need for adventure, somewhat, but not completely.”
He looked at me then turned back to his truck, eyeing the table. “I’ve been trying to keep busy, stay distracted. Woodwork is my latest distraction.”
“I see,” I murmured.
“I built this same table three other times, but this one . . . this one I had trouble with.”
“It looks like a nice table,” I offered. “But . . . why are you giving it to me?”
“Well . . .” he chuckled. “I don’t need it, and I thought maybe you did.”
“Why’d you build it if you didn’t need it? Why not build a desk or a chair or something?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped a little, annoyed at my questioning. “If you don’t want it just say so.”
I gritted my teeth, biting the urge to snap back at him. Could he really blame me for being skeptical? Climbing up into the bed of the truck, I ran my hand across the wood. It really was a nice table. I couldn’t really see what he thought was wrong with it except for the rings with dark growth. Some people might not like that. The table was nothing fancy; it was simple. I liked simple. Simple could be elegant. Then I realized I could stain it to match my cabinets. “How much do you want for it?”
Paul dropped his head as if he was exhausted by me. “Nothing. I’m giving it to you. It’s a gift.”
I lost my patience. Was this a joke? Was he messing with me? “Why? Why me?”
He tilted his head to the side as he looked up at me. “Because I didn’t give up on this one. And I like the idea of giving it to someone that won’t give up on it either.”
My gaze dropped. I didn’t like that he saw this vulnerability in me. I hadn’t realized he was actually listening to me the night he brought me home as I babbled on about not giving up. I must’ve sounded like a nutjob. It was obvious, at least to me anyway, that I was going crazy latching onto a house that I had no ties to with such intense sentimentality. I wondered if he saw it, too. Or was he just taking pity on me?
“Are you sure?” I asked, my tone not hiding one bit of the uncertainty I was feeling.
“I wouldn’t have brought it over here if I wasn’t,” he argued.
I climbed out of the truck and together we pulled the table down, setting it near the porch. “I’m going to grab the wood stain I have in the kitchen. It’ll match the cabinets,” I told him.
“Wait,” he called as I spun around to go. When I turned back, he was unfolding a pocketknife before extending his arm, handing it to me.
“What is that for?”
“To make your mark.”
I blinked a few times, realizing what he meant.