Page 56 of Stud

“If that were the case, I’d be rich by now.” She nodded toward the large barn flanking the property. “Another piece of tiger maple came out of the kiln today. She’s a beauty.”

“Is that so?”

“Thought of you the second I saw her. Actually wanted to pick your brain about something.” Ellen wore heavy work boots and a tattered plaid button-down over loose jeans, her dark hair shoved into a messy ponytail. Her dog, Birch, loped away and nosed at a stick on the ground. The incessant grind of a wood planer whirred, kicking dust into the chilly air.

I loved the lack of pretension here. “Shoot.”

“The way people are salivating for all things recycled, reclaimed wood is hot. I figured it was a good time to add a retail component to my business.”

“Sounds smart.”

“Yeah, but I’m not what you’d call artistic. I’ve been chatting with some clients, sussing out who’d be interested in selling pieces here. I have ins with a few designers looking for one-off stuff. Nothing factory made. You have a good eye for the nice pieces that come through. I’d have to see your work, make sure it fits with my vision, but I thought I’d check if you’re interested.”

If I was interested? I was practically frothing to convince her I was the man for the job. It would mean doing what I loved for a living, using my hands and mind to fashion beauty from nature. “Very interested. What would you need from me, besides seeing samples?”

She whistled on her fingers as Birch wandered toward the wood planer. Her dog trotted to his master, tongue lolling. “I want to start with three craftspeople. Which means, if it takes off, you’ll have to produce the volume needed. I’m clearing the equipment from the front barn. I’ll want enough work from each person to fill it. Make it impressive. Everything will be done on commission, so no cash up front. And you’d be free to do other jobs. I’m not expecting exclusivity.”

Mentally, I calculated how much time I’d need to make another few dining tables, maybe coffee tables and funky barstools, too. I pictured the modern shapes I’d imagined over the past months—sleek lines left rough and natural in spots.

I’d kill to jump on this opportunity, begin my business in earnest, but her talk of cash and commission had me hesitating.

I had a decent nest egg squirreled away, and I was okay not making the money I had in D.C., but I had no idea how much more cash my lawyer would siphon from my account, or when Tessa and I would finally sell our house and divide our assets. Getting pieces done for Ellen meant giving up volunteer hours and likely some of my paid handyman work. If I said yes to this venture and my divorce dragged on, buying materials could dwindle my accounts past my comfort zone. If I promised Ellen I could fill orders and wasn’t able to come through, it would tarnish my name.

But I couldn’t turn down something this perfect. “Count me in.”

We shook on it. “I’ll swing by your space soon. Check out your work in the flesh. For now, come see that sexy piece of maple.”

I left with three stunning wood planks in my truck bed, a future prospect that should have had me on cloud nine, but keeping my precarious finances from Ellen felt like a lie by omission.

A pattern of mine these days.

Ainsley had been at my place five times the past two weeks. Always my apartment, never hers. We’d eat dinner together, spend time on my back deck—her with a Vogue magazine, me with Shakespeare—not to mention the hours spent charting each other’s bodies. We’d even gone hiking, my little fashionista smiling as we meandered along a leisurely trail. Each date I’d ask her to stay the night, and she’d make a joke or brush me off, leaving me in bed alone.

I’d fucked things up not telling her about Tessa from the start. Her guard was up now, waiting for the other shoe to drop. A shoe I could see hovering in midair, no clue how to force it to the ground without stomping on us. I kept hoping Tessa’s new lawyer would, by some miracle, force closure to our never-ending battle. A childish wish, really.

Like believing Santa would bring me my mother for Christmas.

I pulled into my driveway and unloaded my haul. I stood, arms crossed over my chest, staring at the rough wood planks. My gaze blurred and cleared, blurred and cleared. This was my ritual, communing with the pieces, waiting for inspiration to strike.

“If you’re hypnotized, does that mean you won’t notice if I yank down your pants?”

My butt cheeks clenched at the sound of Ainsley’s raspy voice. The woman oozed sex. “Give it a shot. We’ll see what happens.”

Her heels clicked closer. She dropped a takeout bag at my feet and snaked her arms around my waist. “I like this better.” She pressed her face into my back.

My heart pressed into my sternum. Gripping her left hand, I channeled my inner Fred Astaire and twirled her out from behind me, then spun her back in. Her ass landed flush with my groin. “I like this better.”

She twisted her head so she could see me, awe in her wide blue eyes. “Owen Phillips, you really can dance.”

Exotic scents of Indian food curled thickly from the bag at our feet, but it had nothing on her natural musk, always smelling sweet. Like chocolate. I shrugged a shoulder. “Nana was a great teacher. And…” I caught myself before spilling that nugget. I had a habit of divulging my most personal stories to Ainsley. One whiff of this tidbit, and she’d flay me with her quick-witted humor.

She swiveled around to face me, still in my arms. She palmed my cock over my jeans. “And what? I sense another Embarrassing Owen Story. Don’t hold out on me, cowboy.”

“Nothing to tell.”

She gave me another rough stroke. Heat flooded my veins, everything taut and pulsing.

“Liar.” Smirking, she released me and wriggled from my grasp.