Now there was just enough room for me to duck behind the huge sheet of plywood.
I’d sneaked in last night, but I’d been waylaid by Lucky, one of Gideon’s employees. He was the one who’d tacked up the extra wood.
Like a few pieces of soft pine were going to stop me.
I slipped inside and the scent of stain with a sawdust chaser nearly knocked me over. Drop-cloths were draped over everything, leaving ghost-like figures that could be booths or tables or monsters. With my place, it really was a crapshoot which you’d find.
I’d won an auction for a replica of the 80’s movie version of Swamp Thing last month. It had been delivered to much fanfare during the week. I wondered which lump was the former Dr. Holland.
I made it to what should be the main dining area and the low murmur of voices had me scrambling back behind a—son of a bitch. I clipped my pinkie toe on the carved foot of a booth. Goddammit. I spun around in circles and resisted the urge to howl.
The only things not draped were the sawhorses Gideon was forever using to cut stacks of lumber. I gripped the top of it and touched my forehead to it as the stars and black spots receded.
Fuck.
When the pain lessened, dialogue from Halloween dented the quiet of the night. The telltale piano and spine-tingling strings were broken up by the lame love scene. I knew this movie by heart.
I hobbled my way to the back of the dining area to the bar. A ridiculously large laptop was sitting on the half covered bar top. The low light from the screen flickered in the near dark.
A LED lamp threw the band of carved wood along the front in stark relief. The closer I got, the louder the movie became. Then I noticed the tick of shavings hitting the floor around a very familiar pair of Timberlands.
John Gideon. It couldn’t be Lucky or Frank. Nope, it had to be the man himself. And it had been a damn long day. That was the only reason I let myself do a nice long perusal of all six-feet-three inches of him.
Sure.
That’s the reason. Tell yourself another lie.
He had his yellow safety glasses on as he used the world’s smallest chisel to carve into the corner of my bar. His dark hair was slicked back, but the ends were curling up. He tried so hard to keep a smooth, well-groomed look but his hair just wouldn’t be tamed.
I didn’t mind. I liked it a little wild.
I always mourned his hair when he actually remembered to go to the lone hairdresser in the Cove. The town barber had retired to Florida. Many men had learned the fine art of hair products this past year. John Gideon included, damn him.
I frowned as more shavings came pinging over his shoulder.
What was he doing?
I dared to creep a little closer. It seemed like a lot more delicate work than just a regular corner finishing. I was well-versed in Gideon’s woodworking capabilities. Brewed Awakening was full of his innovative shelves and benches.
He didn’t take the time to do intricate work very often. Every once in awhile, I caught him doing something special, but he was often rushing to do five different jobs in and around town. The citizens of the Cove kept him very busy.
“Well, come on. Take a look then. Damn woman, always ruining any surprises.”
I jumped. “Shit, Gideon.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “I told you to keep out of here until we were further along.”
I p
ut my hands on my hips. Now I didn’t want to look, dammit.
Liar. You want to see it so bad that you can taste it.
“It’s my place. I should be able to come in and take a look around.”
He swiped at his forehead with his forearm, leaving behind a trail of sawdust. My lips twitched. And okay, I couldn’t stop myself from trying to see what he was blocking. Too bad his rather delicious ass was throwing a shadow over it.
I did love a man who had a little junk in his trunk. So many didn’t. Not that I had a huge amount of knowledge there, but I’d done enough soul-searching—read, stupid hookups—in my twenties. As thirty approached, I’d become a little more discerning.