The sun had dipped low behind the hills, casting the valley in a golden haze as Jack stood at the edge of his shop, sweat clinging to his bare chest. He watched the dust trail behind Delilah and her mother’s car as it disappeared down the winding road. They’d left him flushed, drained, and very thoroughly thanked.
He wiped his brow with a rag, exhaling slowly, ready to return to the solitude he claimed he craved—but never quite got to enjoy for long.
Just as he turned to head back inside, he saw her.
She was coming up the gravel path on foot, a tall, striking woman with a wide-brimmed hat casting shadows across her face. Her walk was smooth—confident but unhurried. The kind of gait that said she wasn’t lost. She was looking for something… or someone.
Jack leaned against the doorway, watching her approach, his forearms crossed over his broad, dusty chest. “Evenin’,” he called out, voice slow and rich like warm bourbon.
The woman stopped a few feet away, took off her hat, and let her dark curls tumble down around her shoulders. Her eyes—sharp, almond-shaped, and cool gray—landed on him like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Her lips were full, set in an almost-smile.
“You Jack Johnson?”
“Depends who’s askin’,” he said, one brow cocked.
She grinned at that. “Name’s Maris. Someone back in town said the best furniture maker in the region lived out this way. Thought I’d stop by and see for myself.”
Jack chuckled, stepping forward. “That so? What is it you’re lookin’ for? A bench? A table? Or just a story to tell when you leave this town?”
Maris stepped inside the open shop, running her fingers along the smooth wood of a half-finished cedar chair. “A story might do.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “But I’ve got a feeling there’s more to you than just chisels and carving blocks.”
Jack watched her move. She had an elegance—coiled and collected—but he saw something else beneath it. Curiosity. Tension. Desire not yet named out loud.
“I’ve got some time,” Jack said slowly, stepping closer. “Why don’t you tell me what brought you out here. Really.”
She turned to face him now, standing just a breath away. Her blouse was linen, loose but low-cut, fluttering slightly with the breeze. Beneath it, he caught a glimpse of a dark lace bra—a contrast against her bronze skin. She was older than the town girls—early forties maybe—but with a magnetism that didn’t need youth to shine.
“You really want to know?” she asked.
Jack nodded once.
Maris stepped even closer, the air between them taut. “I needed a break. Drove out here on impulse. Heard things. About you. The way women—and men—talked in town… I figured I needed to see for myself.”
Jack’s grin deepened, slow and amused. “And what have you seen so far?”
“Not enough,” she said, voice dropping.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Jack reached past her, brushing her hip as he grabbed a carving cloth from the worktable. He held it between them, voice low. “Furniture’s one kind of craftsmanship. But I’ve been known to put other things together, too. If someone’s… willing to trust me.”
Maris stared up at him, her breath shallow. “I’m not in the habit of handing over control.”
“You’re not handing it over,” Jack said, leaning closer so his lips almost grazed her ear. “You’re letting me show you what it feels like when someone earns it.”
A beat passed. Then another.
She exhaled, slow and trembling, and let her hand rest on his chest. “Then show me, Jack.”
Jack’s Page