Thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside the shop thinking about how nice a cigarette would taste right now when she comes striding up. Her blonde hair is tied up on top of her head in an adorable messy bun. She’s wearing black leggings, ballet flats, and a deep V-neck, black shirt that reveals a colourful neon yellow tank beneath it. She looks cosy, like she had been planning on a quiet night in.
“Where’s Bruce?” I ask, pushing myself away from the side of the building.
“Left him at the flat,” she says, eyeing me like she’s trying to figure out my motive. “I don’t have to lug him everywhere, ya know.”
I eye her seriously. “Probably safer if you do.”
She frowns at my protective suggestion and says, “So what are we doing? Your text was rather cryptic.”
I grin and hold the door open for her to walk past me. My hand brushes the small of her back as I guide her through the shop entry. The urge I feel to touch her more is heady, but I push it away as quickly as it arrives. She steps in and looks back at me in confusion. I gesture to the large wooden workshop counter and her eyes alight in realisation.
“Are these the same boxes?” She hustles over and picks one up, opening it and looking inside with a surprised smile that I take a mental snapshot of.
“They just need to be finished,” I offer.
“Where did you get them?”
I give her a sheepish look. “I made them.”
Her jaw drops. “You made them? But you never said anything before!”
Shrugging, I reply, “I thought maybe you could help me finish them and we could talk.”
“Oh yes, I’d love to!” She begins tugging at her top, attempting to knot it around her waist. “We can continue with your countdown while we work.”
“Actually, I’d prefer we skip the countdown tonight.” I walk over and grab a pair of rubber gloves off the counter. “I just thought…I don’t know. I feel like a wanker for not knowing much about you, so I thought maybe we could spend the night talking…like I’m not some complete fuck-up with a dark and twisted past.”
I glance up just as her bright blue eyes darken. “Hayden, I’ve never looked at you like that…Not once.”
Her severe expression winds me up. I nod awkwardly and hand her the gloves. “All right, tonight I’m going to teach you how to stain. Think you’re man enough for the job?”
She watches me for a moment, evidently letting my self-deprecation slide. “Manlier than most bubbly blondes I’d say.”
I frown at her peculiar reply. Not entirely sure of how to respond, I make quick work of showing her how we dip the cloth into the stain, rub it on heavily, and then wipe it off. I’ve already applied a thin strip of painter’s tape across the top of each box for the design element I’ll add later.
I set her up with her own supplies and she sits down on the stainless steel stool next to me. Her loose shirt keeps getting in her way, so she stops what she’s doing and peels off the offensive material.
I try to look away, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m transfixed. Now wearing only her small tank, her creamy alabaster skin is on full display and her cleavage is drawing me to her. My body reacts reflexively to the lush softness of her skin.
She catches me eyeing her. “So, what do you need these extra boxes for?” I ask, dragging my possessive gaze away from her and back to the box in my hands.
“My brothers,” she replies, applying the first stroke of stain. “The one I got Sunday will be for my dad.”
“What are you putting inside them, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She looks over at me with a fleeting look of embarrassment. “Erm, it’s just something I stumbled upon earlier this year. It took me a while to get it all sorted. But now that I have, I want to make it a special gift.”
My brows lift as I angle toward her. “Do I get to know what the gift is?”
She shrugs. “It’s not so much a gift I suppose. Just…I found a series of poems my mum wrote and some other trinkets. I think they’d all make the best surprise gifts.”
“That’s a lovely idea. How does she feel about you giving away her poems?”
She looks back at her project and murmurs, “She died when I was young.”
My heart clenches. “Vi, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I was only four. I don’t really remember much. But we shared a birthday, so I’ve always felt a connection to her on some level.”
I look at her thoughtfully. “So what are the poems about?”
“They were written in Swedish, so it took me a while to find a translator. But they’re quite cool. They’re all about motherhood. It’s odd, but I felt like I got a glimpse inside her heart when I finally got them translated into English. Some of them are really beautiful, some tragic, some funny. It was surreal. I really connected to them…To her. My dad and brothers don’t even know they exist. The book was tucked away with all of her cookbooks, so it’s no wonder they never saw it.”