“A romance where there’s a big age gap between the couple. Oscar and Moxie are smitten.”
He kicked back against the counter and looked over at the dogs. “I figure he appreciates the value of a woman who knows her own mind.” Something glimmered in those gray eyes as he turned back to her.
Were they still talking about the dog? “Moxie can never be accused of being indecisive.” Misty passed him the last plate to load into the dishwasher. “So, the furkids are konked out. Are you finally going to let me into the inner sanctum so I can see your progress on the arbor?”
“It’s not put together yet.”
“I didn’t figure it would be. But I’d love to see what you’ve done so far. Unless you’re one of those stubborn artists who doesn’t want anybody to see anything but the final product.”
“I’m not an artist. Just a guy who likes making stuff out of wood.” Denver shoved away from the counter and headed down the short hall. “I ended up making a few changes. It’s a lot of work, so I figured I might as well make something they could use beyond just the wedding.” He opened a door into what she presumed was the garage and flipped a light.
Misty followed him into the room. Long work benches lined three of the walls, and the air was scented with sawdust and a faint scent of old varnish. Sawhorses with 4x4 posts took up much of the floor space in front of the closed garage door. Various and sundry other pieces were stacked neatly or in various stages of carving. She could see the knotwork design drawn out in pencil on some. She ran her fingers over the pattern already carved in one arched piece. “Denver, I’m gonna argue with you. You are an artist. This is gorgeous.” So are you. She watched his muscles flex as he easily he picked up one of the 4x4s, taller than he was, and showed her the design he’d put in.
“I decided it would work best as a small pergola. They can set it up over a bench and create a little seating area or something. The interior crosspieces will be plain, since they mostly won’t be seen. But these, the struts, and the lintel that will face the audience will all have this pattern of knotwork and vines. And there will be plenty of space for you to train actual vines or attach whatever other flowers you decide on.”
“Where did you learn how to do this?”
“My dad taught me. He was a cabinetmaker by trade. Mostly plain and simple stuff, but every now and again, he’d get a client who’d want something really special. Then he got to play.”
“You two were really close.” That much was obvious in the warmth of his tone.
“Yeah. It was just us for a long time. My mom split when I was little, and he raised me on his own, with his mom’s help. My Nana Jean was from Georgia, but she came all the way out to Nevada and lived with us until she died.”
“Sounds like a good grandmother. How old were you when she died?”
“Senior in high school. Wasn’t the same after she was gone, but Dad and I managed.”
It was the implied tone of until that had her pressing for more. “How did he die?” she asked softly.
Denver leaned absently against the post. “He had kidney disease.” She thought he was going to stop there, but he kept going. “At first it didn’t slow him down much. He kept working, kept training me. Dialysis was just another part of the routine. Then he started getting weaker, having dizzy spells, pain. The dialysis wasn’t cutting anymore. He needed a new kidney. I wasn’t a match, so he got on the transplant list. But that’s a bit like hoping to win the lottery. He ran out of time.”
Misty’s throat went thick. The story was so familiar, it made her ache in ways he couldn’t understand. “I’m so sorry.”
Denver twitched his shoulders. “It sucked. After he died, I couldn’t stay. So I sold everything we had left, except for Roxanne and his carving tools, and I hit the road for that trip we’d planned.”
Feeling the need to steer them away from this conversational precipice, Misty offered up a smile. “I’m glad you ended up here.”
“Me, too.”
“Answer me this, though. If you can do all this—” She gestured at the workshop and the pieces of the arbor. “—why the bar? Why not make a career out of woodworking or carving?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like building things. Using those tools, designing stuff, that all makes me feel closer to my dad. But doing it as a career, I wouldn’t get the choice to do what I wanted, when I wanted. I’d get boxed in to those simple, humdrum designs, and that’s not the part I love. Keeping it like this means it stays fun and never becomes work.”
“I get that. And I respect it. But there’s still a part of me—the part that showcases artisans and craftsmen—that feels like it’s a damned shame.”
Misty traced the pattern again, admiring the design and the hands that had created it as he put the post back in place. She just generally admired the man himself. His gaze came back to her before dropping to where her fingers were still stroking over the smoothness of the wood. Those gray eyes darkened, and she made her decision. She’d made the first move by inviting him to dinner. That had worked out fine. It was time to up the ante again.
She walked toward him, trailing her hands over the neatly stacked pieces, around the edges of the tools he so prized. “You seem to be a very thorough guy.”
One brow arched up. “No point in doing a thing if it’s not done properly and well. Take your time and get it right the first time.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She rose to her toes and laid her lips over his.
For an endless second, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. He stood, still as the proverbial statue, as her heart began to hammer with the first tinges of mortification. Then a growl rumbled from his chest. His hands gripped her hips and dragged her against that big, strong body. He might have needed a nudge off the starting line, but he wasted no time in devouring her mouth. And, yeah, he was every bit as thorough as she’d expected him to be.
She didn’t know which of them broke the kiss. They were both breathing hard. Her arms were clamped around his shoulders, and she felt positively boneless. As first kisses went, that had been off the charts. She blew out a shaky breath. “I’d call that a properly executed first attempt.”
One corner of his mouth quirked. “I don’t know, I might need more data to make that call.”