Chapter 2: Woodworking With Benefits
The shop smelled of cedar dust and citrus oil, a familiar scent that usually centered Cale’s mind completely. Today, it wasn’t working.
Sunlight cut through the high, dusty windows in solid beams, illuminating galaxies of floating sawdust. At the central workbench, Clem had her sketchbook splayed open, a detailed drawing of a coffee table with undulating, organic legs that looked like something grown, not built.
“See, the joinery here is totally hidden,” she said, her voice hushed with excitement. Her finger, tipped with chipped black polish, traced a line on the paper. “It’ll look like it’s all one continuous piece of walnut.”
“It’s beautiful, Clem.” Cale’s voice was low. He stood close beside her, his hip almost touching the bench. He wasn’t really looking at the sketch. He was watching the way the light turned the crown of her blue hair silver, how a smudge of charcoal highlighted the delicate curve of her jaw.
Her hand, resting near the sketchbook, was inches from his. The night before was a live wire between them, humming in the quiet of the empty workshop. Her mom was out on a supply run. They had the whole, resonant space to themselves.
“Think we can actually make it?” she asked, finally looking up at him. Her eyes were bright, seeking his approval not just as a boyfriend, but as the craftsman whose skill she trusted.
“Yeah. We can.” He reached for a nearby ruler, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. It wasn’t an accident. A faint, electric jolt passed between them. She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she shifted her hand, turning it palm-up so her fingertips grazed his knuckles. The contact was feather-light, devastating. “This curve here,” she murmured, her gaze dropping back to the sketch but her attention clearly elsewhere. “I’m worried the router might tear out the grain.”
“We’ll use a backer board. Go slow.” His own hand turned, his palm meeting hers. Their fingers didn’t laced yet. They just rested there, skin to skin, on the worn, scarred wood of the bench. The warmth of her seeped into him.
The shop was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator in the office. He could hear her breathing, a little quicker than normal. He knew she could feel his pulse where his wrist lay against hers.
“Slow is good,” she whispered.
He moved his thumb, a slow stroke across the base of her thumb. Her breath caught, the same tiny hitch from the night in the hammock. That sound unmoored him. It was a permission slip, a secret shared.
His other hand came up, cupping her cheek, turning her face gently towards him. Charcoal smudged her skin. He saw the flicker in her eyes—amusement, anticipation, a dart of nervousness. Her lips parted slightly.
“We’re at work,” she breathed, but she was leaning into his touch.
“Shop’s empty.”
“It’s a place of serious craft,” she said, a smile playing on her mouth.
“Very serious.”
He closed the last of the distance. The kiss wasn’t like the one by the firepit. That had been discovery. This was confirmation. It was deeper, more certain, fueled by the tension of the morning and the solid reality of her pressed between him and the solid edge of the workbench. His hands framed her face, then slid back into her hair. Hers fisted in the fabric of his t-shirt at his waist, pulling him closer.
The sketchbook crackled, forgotten, beneath her elbows. A chisel rolled with a soft clatter they didn’t hear.
He felt light-headed, drunk on the smell of her—vanilla shampoo and the graphite from her pencils mixing with the wood scent of the shop. It was their own alchemy. One of his hands left her hair, sliding down to the small of her back, anchoring her against him. A low sound, almost a whimper, vibrated in her throat, and it sent a bolt of pure heat through him.
The shrill ring of the office phone shattered the moment.
They jerked apart, gasping. Clem’s eyes were wide, her lips swollen. Cale’s heart slammed against his sternum like it wanted out. The phone rang again, an obnoxious, persistent bleat.
Clem let out a shaky laugh, dropping her forehead against his chest. “Why now?”
He rested his chin on top of her head, willing his pulse to slow, holding her until the phone went silent. The quiet that followed was thick, charged.
“Your mom’s gonna know,” he murmured into her hair.
“Know what?” She tilted her head back to look at him, feigning innocence. “That we’re deeply committed to discussing mortise and tenon techniques?”
“Yeah. That.” He brushed his thumb over her bottom lip, wiping away a trace of himself. “We should probably… get some wood or something.”
“Probably.” She didn’t move. Her hands were still tucked under his shirt, her fingers warm on his skin. “Cale?”
“Hmm?”
“The table.” She nodded toward the abandoned sketch. “You really think it’ll work?”
He looked at the drawing, then back at her—flushed, disheveled, brilliant. He knew she wasn’t just talking about the furniture. “I know it will,” he said. And he meant every possible layer of it.