“But—”
“I said you’re going to have to trust me.” He scooped up his jacket. “Now, go and meddle in someone else’s love life because you’ve spent long enough on mine.”
Frankie had only visited his workshop a few times before. A large space beneath his offices, he used it for storage and also for any construction work that couldn’t be done on-site.
The doors opened onto an outdoor area stacked high with planters and paving slabs. A few large trees stood tall in their tubs, ready to be delivered to his various ongoing projects.
Today he was working on the second of three log benches that were destined for the roof terrace. James and Roxy were working on-site so Frankie and Matt were on their own.
Frankie tried not to think about that.
Instead, she stared at the thick tree trunk. “Cedar?”
“Red cedar.” He pulled a tape measure out of his pocket. “It’s pretty easy to shape and will withstand the extremes of temperature.”
She didn’t have to ask what he meant. She’d lived through plenty of New York summers and winters.
“It’s going to look great.”
“I think so.” He measured the log and made some calculations. “While I do this, why don’t you take a look at the planters? See if there is anything there you think will work. If not, we can design something specifically to fit the space.”
“Okay.” She’d spent the last three nights planning the talk they were going to have. The one where she told him he had to stop looking at her and standing so close to her and all the other things he was doing that disturbed her equilibrium. But today he seemed to be more preoccupied by his work than by her.
She dropped to her haunches to take a closer look at a terracotta planter. Deciding it wasn’t right for her needs, she moved on and paused by the log bench he’d already completed.
Like his sister, he had a high attention to detail, and it showed. The piece was a testament to his skills as a craftsman and designer.
She glanced across to where he was turning the thick tree trunk into a stylish rustic seat.
Watching him work was like watching an artist. He used a level to measure where to make the cuts, his movements careful and precise. Only when he was satisfied that he had the line he wanted did he pick up the chain saw. He flipped down the visor on his helmet and moments later the sound of the saw cut through the air. He’d been using a chain saw since his late teens, when his father had realized this was more than just a hobby and had made sure he was properly trained.
She remembered him being called out to help on numerous occasions when heavy snow had felled trees on the island where they’d lived. Like other members of the community, Matt had waded in and helped without question.
It seemed he hadn’t lost any of his skill. He didn’t just carve the bench, he understood the wood. He knew its strengths and weaknesses. He understood how to make the best product and his eye for style and design was faultless.
He cut the basic outline and then shaped it. Every cut had to be just right. Every angle perfect. It was fascinating to watch him work.
For a brief unsettling moment Frankie had a vision of him in bed with a woman. He’d be good, she thought, and immediately looked away.
What did she know about being good in bed?
Nothing.
She was a D minus with nothing for effort.
She was so busy wondering why that thought kept plaguing her that it was a few moments before she realized the whine of the chain saw had ceased.
Glancing across she saw that he’d stripped off his shirt, along with all the protective clothing. Wiping a hand over his brow, he reached for a bottle of water from the cooler and emptied it over his head and shoulders.
His chest gleamed with droplets of water and Frankie felt her mouth dry. Was he doing it on purpose to gain her attention? No. He wasn’t even looking at her. And why shouldn’t he take his shirt off? This was his space. He could do what he liked here.
She’d known him forever but this was the first time she’d seen him without his shirt.
His jeans rode low on his hips and hard, pumped-up muscles rippled and gleamed in the fierce beam of sunlight that shone in through the window. He had a couple of scratches on his arms and another on his shoulder, although whether they were courtesy of an aggressive cat or an aggressive rosebush, she didn’t know.
She felt weird, slightly light-headed, as if she’d drunk a bottle of beer too fast or gone a day without eating. It was the sun, she thought, and pulled her hat out of her back pocket.
She was a redhead and had to cover up in the sun.