Chapter 6: Countertops, Caulk, and a Very Unprofessional Break
The saw screamed through the butcher block, a high-pitched wail that sent sawdust spiraling into the air like snow. Jordan leaned into the cut, guiding the jigsaw along the penciled line with a steady hand, his safety glasses fogging at the edges. The blade chewed through the hardwood, spitting out a fine powder that settled on his forearms, his shirt, the fresh pine floorboards beneath his boots.
The cabin was taking shape. Slowly. Painfully. But taking shape.
The walls were up—rough-sawn cedar planks that smelled like Christmas every time he walked through the door. The roof was on, the windows were in, and the wood stove sat in the corner like a sleeping animal, its black iron belly waiting for the first fire. The plumbing was roughed in, the electrical was run, and the loft was framed out exactly where Anna had wanted it, the east-facing window already installed, already catching the morning light.
But the kitchen was the heart of it. Anna had said that from the beginning, sketching countertops and cabinets in the margins of the blueprints, her pen moving faster than her brain. And now here they were, six weeks into the build, installing the butcher block they'd driven three hours to pick up from a mill outside Sudbury.
Jordan finished the cut and killed the saw. The silence that followed was almost violent—just the wind outside, the soft lap of the lake against the shore, the distant call of a chickadee.
He lifted the sink cutout free and set it aside. The hole was clean. Perfect. He ran his fingers along the edge, feeling the smoothness of the wood, and allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.
"Nice," Anna said from behind him.
He turned. She was standing at the far end of the counter, caulk gun in hand, wearing cutoff shorts and one of his flannel shirts with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy knot, and there was a smudge of sawdust on her cheek.
"Nice?" he said. "That's all I get?"
She shrugged. "It's a hole. In a counter. Very impressive."
"You're a tough critic."
"I'm an honest critic."
He grinned and turned back to the counter, checking the fit of the sink. It dropped in clean, flush with the surface, and he nodded to himself.
"Hand me the caulk?" he said.
She walked over and passed him the gun. Her fingers brushed his, and he felt the familiar spark—that low hum of wanting that never seemed to go away, no matter how many times they fucked.
He focused on the sink, running a bead of caulk along the rim, smoothing it with his finger. The smell of the sealant mixed with the sawdust, sharp and chemical, and he wrinkled his nose.
"God, that stuff is nasty," Anna said.
"Better than a leaky sink."
"True."
She moved to the other end of the counter and started caulking the seam where the two slabs of butcher block met. Her movements were slow and deliberate, the gun leaving a perfect line of white, and Jordan watched her for a moment before turning back to his work.
They worked in silence for a while. The wind picked up outside, rattling the window frames, and the propane canister hissed weakly in the corner—the temporary cookstove they'd been using until the real range arrived. The flame flickered, almost went out, then steadied.
Jordan finished the sink and stepped back to admire his work. The counter looked good. Better than good. The butcher block gleamed under the bare bulb that hung from the ceiling, its surface smooth and pale, the grain running in long, elegant lines.
He was about to say something to Anna—something about how far they'd come, how this was starting to feel like a real home—when he turned and saw her.
She was bent over the counter.
Not just bent. She was leaning across the surface, her weight on her forearms, her back arched, her ass pushed out. She was reaching for something on the far side—a rag, maybe, or the roll of paper towels—and her cutoff shorts had ridden up, exposing the lower curve of her ass, the soft skin of her thighs.
Jordan's brain stopped working and he just stared. She was wearing cutoff shorts. Cutoffs. Every man in the history of the world has a thing for a woman in cutoffs and this was why.
He watched the muscles in her calves flex as she stretched. Her calves. He wasn't a calves guy, he was an ass guy, but right now every part of her felt like a gift he should unwrap.
He set the caulk gun down very carefully on the counter.
Then he crossed the kitchen in three strides.
"You're in my way," he said, his voice low.
She glanced back over her shoulder, eyebrow raised. "What?"
He didn't answer. He just stepped up behind her, pressed his hips against her ass, and heard her breath catch.
"Jordan—"
He didn't let her finish. He grabbed her hips and pushed her flat against the counter, her tits squashing into the butcher block, her cheek pressed to the wood. She made a sound—surprise, then something else—and he reached down and yanked her cutoff shorts down over her hips.
No panties. Of course there were no panties. She never wore them when they were working on the cabin—said they were uncomfortable, said the heat made her sweat. He'd known this. He'd noticed it every time she bent over. But now he was doing something about it.
"Jordan, what the hell—"
He unbuckled his belt, the leather making a sharp crack as he yanked it free.
"Shut up," he said. Not mean. Just direct.
She went quiet. Her fingers curled around the edge of the counter, gripping it tight. Beneath his palm, her skin was warm, and she was already wet when he pushed his thumb between her folds.
"Thought so," he said.
He didn't bother with more prep. He gripped his cock and aligned himself against her, and then he was inside her, burying himself to the root in one slow, grinding thrust.
She gasped. The sound echoed off the unfinished walls. Her whole body tensed, and then relaxed around him, taking him in like she'd been waiting for this, like she'd known exactly what was coming when she bent over that counter.
"Fuck," he said.
He started moving.
Rough. Fast. Hard. The rhythm was punishing, his hips slamming against her ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the cabin. She gripped the counter edge and held on, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her tits—still covered by his flannel shirt, but he'd fix that in a second—pressed into the wood he'd spent all morning sanding, and he could see her legs shaking.
The caulk gun clattered to the floor and neither of them moved.
"You like that?" he said.
"You know I do."
"Say it."
"I like it."
He thrust deeper, and she moaned, a raw, animal sound. The bare bulb swung overhead, casting their shadows against the wall—a tangled shape, two bodies merged, his hands on her hips and her body bent beneath him like a question.
He leaned forward, his chest against her back, his mouth at her ear. "You know what I was thinking about? While I was cutting that sink hole?"
"What?"
"This." He drove into her, punctuating the word. "I was thinking about bending you over this counter and fucking you until you couldn't stand up."
"Jesus."
"Because you keep wearing those shorts. Those goddamn cutoffs." Another thrust. "You keep bending over like you're asking for it."
"I—"
"Don't lie."
She didn't. She just groaned and pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. The counter creaked beneath them, and somewhere in the pile of tools, his jigsaw blade rustled, and he didn't care.
He reached around and grabbed her tits through the flannel. Rough, through the fabric.
"I want you to come," he said. "Can you come like this?"
"Maybe."
"Try."
He adjusted his angle, driving up, hitting that spot that always made her knees buckle. She cried out—a short, sharp sound—and he did it again. And again.
"Jordan—"
"Come on."
She came with a shuddering gasp, her whole body clenching around him. He felt it—the grip, the release—and he pulled out right when she started to come down, spinning her around before she could catch her breath.
"What—"
He didn't answer. He grabbed her by the thighs and lifted her onto the counter, her bare ass on the fresh butcher block, her legs dangling off the edge.
Then he dropped to his knees.
"Oh god," she said.
He spread her legs and buried his face between them.
She tasted like everything. Sweat and salt and the sweet, sharp tang of her cunt. He licked up the length of her slit, and she gasped, one hand landing on his head, her fingers tangling in his hair.
"Jordan—"
He didn't stop. He worked her with his tongue, flat and firm, then circles around her clit. She was already wet, already sensitive from the fuck, and he knew she'd come fast if he pushed her.
He pushed her.
He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, two fingers sliding inside her at the same time. She bucked against his face, her heels digging into his back, and he held her steady.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she chanted.
He curled his fingers inside her, hitting that spot, and she shattered.
She came with a scream—not loud, but raw, her whole body convulsing around his fingers, her thighs clamping down on his ears. He kept working her through it, slower now, gentler, until she collapsed back against the counter, panting.
He stood up. His mouth was wet with her, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.
"You're a mess," she said.
"So are you."
He looked at her—sprawled across the butcher block, her shirt unbuttoned by accident, her shorts still around one ankle. And he wasn't done. Not even close.
"Wait here," he said.
"Where the hell am I going to go?"
He grabbed the caulk gun off the floor and tossed it onto the far counter. Then he lifted her off the counter and turned her toward the kitchen island—the one they'd built last week, the one she'd said was too big for the space. She'd been wrong. It was perfect.
He bent her over it, her ass facing him, and pushed her legs apart with his knee.
"Again?" she said.
"Again."
He was already hard again—had been since she came on his face. He pushed into her without ceremony, and she gasped, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth wood.
This time was different. Slower. Deeper. He wanted to feel every inch of her, every ridge and fold. He wanted to make it last.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he said.
"I'm thinking—" She broke off as he hit a spot that made her toes curl. "I'm thinking we have to sand this counter again."
"Why?"
"Because you're getting—" She moaned as he thrust deeper. "Because there's caulk on it. And now—"
He looked down. There was a smear of white caulk on the counter, transferred from her skin, and now a new smear forming from the sweat and wet of both of them.
"I don't care," he said.
"You will tomorrow."
"I don't care tomorrow either."
He fucked her harder, the island rocking beneath them. The bare bulb swung in an arc, casting moving shadows, and he watched himself disappear into her, over and over, and the sight made his head swim.
"You're so fucking tight," he said. "So fucking good."
"Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
He reached around and found her clit with his fingers, rubbing in tight circles while he kept thrusting. She clenched around him, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Come with me," he said.
"I can't—"
"You can. I want to feel you come around my cock."
She did. A moment later, her body tightened, and she let out that sound—that low, helpless moan—and he felt her come undone around him. He followed a beat later, burying himself deep and holding there, spilling into her with a groan that seemed to shake the walls.
They stayed frozen for a long moment. Then he pulled out and she slumped onto the island, her body limp, her breath ragged.
"Holy shit," she said.
He laughed. "Yeah."
The silence came back and it was full of the same sounds—the wind, the lake, the chickadee that was now scolding them from the eaves. But there was something else underneath it, and it carried the weight of sawdust and sweat and the sharp tang of sex.
Jordan found his jeans and pulled them on. Anna rolled onto her back on the island, staring at the ceiling, her chest still heaving.
"We have to sand it," she said.
"What?"
"The counter. Look at it."
He looked. The butcher block was smeared with caulk and sweat and other things he didn't want to name. The fresh wood—the wood he'd spent hours cutting and fitting and sanding—was a mess.
"Shit," he said.
"Told you."
He sighed. "We'll sand it tomorrow."
"You'll sand it tomorrow. I'm never bending over this counter again."
He looked at her. She was still naked from the waist down, her shirt hanging open, her hair a disaster. There was a streak of caulk on her thigh and a mark on her hip where she'd been pressed against the counter.
"Liar," he said.
She laughed. "Yeah. Probably."
He walked over and helped her sit up. Then he kissed her—soft, this time, gentle, nothing like what they'd just done. Her lips were swollen, and she tasted like salt.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
"Even though I ruined your counter."
"Our counter. And yes. Even though you ruined it."
He pulled her to her feet. Her cutoff shorts were still around one ankle, and she kicked them off, leaving them on the floor. She pulled on her underwear from somewhere and buttoned his flannel.
"We should clean up," she said.
"In a minute."
He took her hand and led her to the open door of the cabin. Outside, the lake was still, the sky was gray, and the cedars stood sentinel in the cold wind.
"Look at this," he said.
"I'm looking."
"Everything we built. Everything we're going to build."
She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder. "The counter still needs sanding."
"You're ruining the moment."
"You ruined the counter."
He laughed and kissed the top of her head. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of pine and sawdust and the faint, clean scent of the lake. And somewhere in the distance, a loon called—that wild, mournful sound that seemed to belong to this place, this land, this life they were building.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get cleaned up. Then we'll sand the counter."
"And then?"
"And then we'll pick out the cabinet hardware. You said you wanted brass."
"I said I wanted matte black."
"Brass."
"Black."
He grinned. "We'll compromise."
She rolled her eyes. "We always compromise."
They went back inside, and he grabbed a rag and the sandpaper while she pulled on her cutoff shorts. The counter was a mess—caulk and sweat and the imprint of her body on the wood—but it was theirs. All of it. The mess and the mistakes and the do-overs.
He started sanding, and she stood beside him, watching the wood grain emerge again, fresh and clean beneath his hand.
"Do you think we'll ever get tired of this?" she asked.
"Of sanding?"
"Of everything. Of building. Of fighting about countertops and ruining them and sanding them again."
He paused. Looked at her.
"I think," he said slowly, "that I want to build a life with you. Every day will have a reveal or a disaster. The light is always decent. That's worth the fight."
She stared at him. Then she laughed.
"You're a poet."
"I'm a guy who knows what he wants."
"And what's that?"
He set the sandpaper down and pulled her into his arms.
"This," he said. "You. Here. In this cabin. For the rest of our lives."
She kissed him. Soft and slow and full of everything she couldn't say.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
He held her for a long time, breathing her in, feeling her heart beat against his. Outside, the wind died down and the lake went still and the loon was silent.
The counter would need to be sanded a dozen more times before it was right. The cabinets would need to be hung. The range would arrive next week. The bed—the one he'd promised to build with his own hands—was still just a stack of lumber in the corner.
But the cabin was home. And she was home. And tomorrow there would be more work, more fights, more compromises.
Tonight, there was just this.
He kissed her forehead and picked up the sandpaper again.
"Hand me that rag?" he said.
She did. And they worked side by side in the unfinished kitchen, the bare bulb swinging overhead, the cold wind rattling the windows, the fresh scent of sawdust rising around them like a promise.
The sandpaper rasped against the butcher block, a steady, rhythmic sound that filled the empty kitchen. Jordan worked in long strokes, following the grain, watching the pale wood emerge from under the smeared caulk and sweat. Anna stood beside him, rag in hand, wiping down the edges he'd already finished.
"You missed a spot," she said.
"Where?"
She pointed. He leaned over and sanded the mark away. The dust rose in a fine cloud, catching the bare bulb's light, and he blinked it out of his eyes.
"Better," she said.
"Anything else?"
She ran her fingers along the surface, checking for rough patches. Finding none, she nodded.
"Good enough."
"Good enough for now. We'll do a proper finish next week."
She tossed the rag onto the counter and stretched, her back cracking. They'd been at it for hours—the counter, the cabinets, the never-ending list of details that came with building a house from nothing.
"I'm starving," she said.
"Me too."
"There's leftover chili in the trailer."
"That was three days ago."
"It's fine. Chili gets better with age."
He raised an eyebrow. "Does it?"
"Shut up and eat it."
They walked out of the cabin and into the cold evening air. The sky was bruised purple and orange, the sun sinking behind the cedars, and the lake reflected it all like a mirror. The trailer sat twenty yards away, small and silver, its windows fogged from the inside.
Jordan stopped walking and just looked at it.
"What?" Anna said.
"Nothing. Just—" He shook his head. "We lived in that thing for six months."
"And now we live in a house with no running water and a hole where the toilet goes."
"Progress."
She laughed. "Sure."
They climbed into the trailer and heated the chili on the propane stove. It was, in fact, fine. Better than fine. They ate sitting on the fold-down bed, their knees touching, the blueprints spread out beside them.
Anna picked up a pen and started sketching. She did that a lot—little doodles in the margins, ideas for the garden, the porch, the studio she wanted to build at the back of the property.
"What's that?" Jordan asked.
"Greenhouse."
"We don't have a greenhouse."
"We will."
He watched her draw. The lines were quick and confident, a structure taking shape under her hand—glass panels, cedar framing, a door that opened toward the lake.
"You really want one?" he said.
"I really do."
"Then we'll build one."
She looked up. "After the bathroom, the bedroom, the porch, the—"
"After all of it. We'll build it."
She smiled and went back to her drawing. He finished his chili and set the bowl aside, leaning back against the wall, watching her work.
The trailer was cramped and smelled like propane and old socks. The bed was too small for two people. The walls were thin enough to hear the wind like it was inside with them.
But he loved it.
He loved the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating. The way her auburn hair fell across her face and she pushed it back with an impatient hand. The way she hummed under her breath when she drew—some song he didn't recognize, some melody that lived in her head.
"You're staring," she said.
"I know."
"It's creepy."
"I know."
She set the pen down and looked at him. Her eyes were tired but bright, and there was a smudge of graphite on her cheek.
"What?" she said.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when you're thinking about something."
He was thinking about something. He'd been thinking about it for weeks, actually—months, if he was honest. Ever since the day they'd signed the deed, standing in the lawyer's office with a banker's check and a folder full of dreams.
He'd been thinking about forever.
"Jordan."
"What?"
"Spit it out."
He reached into his pocket. The ring had been there for three days, burning a hole in his jeans, waiting for the right moment. He'd planned to do it on the porch, or by the lake, or at the top of the ridge where they'd watched the sunset on their first day as landowners.
But here, in this cramped trailer, with the blueprints spread out and the chili bowls dirty and her hair a mess—this was right. This was them.
He pulled out the ring.
Anna's breath caught. It was a simple thing—a silver band with a small sapphire, nothing flashy. He'd picked it because it matched her eyes when the light hit them just right.
"What—" she started.
"I know we haven't talked about it," he said. "Not really. Not in words. But I've been thinking about it. Every day. Every time we fight about countertops or argue about windows. Every time I wake up next to you in this stupid trailer."
She was staring at the ring. Her hands had gone still in her lap.
"I want to marry you," he said. "I want to build this life with you. All of it. The cabin. The greenhouse. The stupid bathroom with the hole where the toilet goes. I want all of it."
"Jordan—"
"I'm not asking for an answer right now. I'm just—I'm asking."
She looked up at him. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling—that crooked smile that made his chest ache.
"You idiot," she said.
"Is that a yes?"
"It's an—" She laughed, a broken sound. "Yes. Obviously yes."
He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then she was in his arms, kissing him, the ring still in his hand, her body pressed against his in the narrow bunk.
"I love you," she said against his mouth.
"I love you too."
"Put the ring on me before I change my mind."
He slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. She held her hand up, admiring it in the dim light.
"It's beautiful," she said.
"You're beautiful."
"That was cheesy."
"I don't care."
She kissed him again. Deeper this time. Her hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
"We're celebrating," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She pushed him back onto the bed and climbed on top of him. The trailer creaked under their weight, and the blueprints slid to the floor, forgotten.
Her mouth was hot on his neck. Her hips ground against his, and he groaned, his hands finding her ass and squeezing.
"You're going to marry me," she said.
"I am."
"And you're going to build me a greenhouse."
"I am."
"And you're never going to argue with me about countertops again."
"I'm not promising that."
She laughed and bit his shoulder. He flipped her over, pinning her beneath him, and she gasped.
"Careful," she said. "I'm wearing a ring now. That means you have to be nice to me."
"Since when?"
She grinned. "Since never. Fuck me."
He didn't need to be told twice. He yanked her jeans down, and she kicked them off, and then his own followed. The trailer was cold, but her skin was warm, and he pressed himself against her, feeling her shiver.
"How do you want it?" he said.
"Like this. Slow. I want to feel you."
He pushed inside her and she arched beneath him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in, and he moved—slow and deep. The bunk creaked with every thrust, and the wind howled outside, and somewhere in the distance, a loon called across the water.
"Jordan," she whispered.
"I'm here."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
He kissed her. Soft, then hard. Her tongue met his, and her hips rose to meet every thrust, and the world outside—the cold, the darkness, the unfinished cabin—disappeared.
There was only her. Her breath, her skin, her heat.
"I'm close," she said.
"Me too."
"Together."
"Together."
He thrust deeper, harder, and she cried out—that raw, helpless sound he loved. He felt her tighten around him, felt her come, and he followed, spilling into her with a groan.
They lay tangled in the narrow bunk, breathless.
"You proposed," she said.
"I did."
"In a trailer."
"I did."
"With dirty chili bowls and blueprints on the floor."
"That's how you know it's real."
She laughed and kissed his chest. Her ring caught the light, a small spark in the darkness.
"We need to tell people," she said.
"Who?"
"I don't know. My mom. Your parents. Everyone."
"Everyone's a lot."
"A small circle. The people who matter."
He thought about it. His parents, who'd been skeptical at first—of the land, the cabin, the girl he'd met in the woods. Her friends, who'd seen her through the breakup and the tears and the decision to run away to Canada. The few people who'd supported them, who'd believed in this crazy thing they were building.
"Let's invite them," he said.
"To what? We don't have a wedding date."
"To the cabin. When it's done. We'll have a party. A small one. Just the people who matter."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded.
"I'd like that."
"Me too."
She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. Her hair was a mess, and there was still graphite on her cheek, and her lips were swollen from kissing.
"Next year," she said. "When the cabin's finished. When we have a real bed and a real kitchen and running water."
"When the greenhouse is built."
"When the greenhouse is built."
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Deal," he said.
She kissed him one more time. Soft. Sweet. Then she settled against his chest, her breath evening out, and he felt her relax into sleep.
He stayed awake for a while. Listening to the wind. Feeling her heartbeat against his ribs. Thinking about the ring on her finger and the life they were building and the small circle of people who'd helped them get here.
Tomorrow, he'd start making calls. Tomorrow, they'd start planning.
Tonight, he had everything he needed.
He closed his eyes, and sleep came easy for the first time in months.
The next morning, Jordan woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of Anna on the phone.
She was sitting at the fold-down table, the blueprints pushed aside, her ring catching the light as she gestured. Her voice was bright, early-morning gravel mixed with excitement.
"No, Mom. It's not a joke. He actually proposed. In a trailer. Yes, it was romantic. Shut up."
Jordan propped himself up on his elbow and watched her. She caught his eye and smiled, then went back to her phone call.
"I'll send pictures. Yes. Yes. I love you too. Bye."
She hung up and set the phone down.
"My mother wants to come see the ring," she said. "In person."
"Did you tell her it's a sapphire?"
"I told her it's perfect."
"It is perfect."
She walked over and sat on the edge of the bunk, handing him a mug of coffee.
"I called a few friends last night," he said. "While you were asleep."
"Jordan. You were supposed to sleep."
"I was too excited."
"Who'd you call?"
"Ben. And Marcus. And my sister."
"Your sister?"
"She was awake. She's always awake."
Anna sipped her coffee. "What did you tell them?"
"That we're having a wedding. Small. At the cabin. Next summer."
"Next summer."
"When it's done."
She looked around the trailer. At the cramped space, the dirty dishes, the blueprints on the floor.
"It's never going to be done," she said.
"It will. We'll make it work."
She set down her mug and leaned into him, her head on his shoulder.
"Ben and Marcus," she said. "And your sister. And my mom. And my friend Rachel."
"That's six."
"Plus us. Eight."
"A small circle."
"The smallest."
He put his arm around her, pulling her close. The trailer creaked in the wind, and the coffee was strong and bitter, and the morning light was gray through the fogged windows.
"We'll need a cake," she said.
"Obviously."
"And music."
"I'll figure it out."
"And chairs. People need somewhere to sit."
"We'll build them."
"Out of what?"
"Out of the pine we felled. Remember? The land clearing."
She laughed. "That wood is still curing."
"Then we'll build them out of something else."
"You're going to build chairs for our wedding."
"I'm going to build everything. The cabin. The greenhouse. The chairs."
"And the marriage?"
He kissed her forehead.
"That too."