Page 62 of Falling for You Again

“Where’s Blueberry?” He glances around the room for the cat.

“He took off as soon as I pulled out his carrier. He doesn’t like it. I only use it when I take him to the vet. He’s either under your bed or hiding in the closet.”

“Put some food out for him. It’s near his dinnertime, and this might take a while. We have to drive through traffic,” he says, and his concern for my pet thaws some of my disappointment and anger.

“Are we taking your car?”

“Yes, why?”

“I can’t get over that you have a car and I didn’t know about it.”

“I didn’t not tell you on purpose, if that’s what you’re thinking. I hardly drive it. I keep it parked on the company lot since I don’t have a garage.”

“Oh.”

“Will you come with me?” He holds out his hand for mine. Our eyes meet, and I see that same plea for my trust as a silver lining around his gray irises.

I take his hand.

Aaron’s car is parked on the street a few doors down, and he drives us to an old four-story brick building on A Street. There’s no signage, the building fairly nondescript aside from a small parking lot with three stalls and a docking bay for deliveries and pickups. Aaron parks his car and takes us to the main entrance.

“Whose building is this?” I ask as he unlocks the door.

“Mine.”

“The entire building?”

He nods and I’m floored. I’m realizing how little we know about each other. We talk about ... well, stuff. But we’ve never discussed money or our financial portfolios—rather, my lack of one—since I insisted we keep our finances separate.

“This is a big building.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a quirky half smile as he pushes open the door, moving aside for me to enter first. “I rent out the other three floors as office space. But I’ve kept the first floor for my use.”

“It’s empty,” I say, looking around the space that’s open-concept except for a couple of partitioned sections that could become an office and conference room in the future.

“Hopefully, not for long. I have some stuff in the back.”

He leads me to a set of double glass doors and pushes through them. I follow him into an even larger room, stopping just inside the doorway when he does. It looks like a warehouse. An assortment of tools, drills, blades, hammers, and chisels hang on one wall. A bay of lumber sorted by type and cut runs along another wall. Workbenches and planers and table saws are spaced out across the floor. Everything looks new and shiny. The room is twice the size of Artisant Designs and has one docking bay door.

“What is this place?” I ask, wary he’s brought me to a competitor’s shop.

He fiddles with the key he used to unlock the entrance. “You aren’t the only one with dreams.”

“This isyourwoodshop?” I notice an unfinished table in the center of the room that looks vaguely familiar. “That’s my table.” I rush over to it.

“Or a sorry attempt at it.” Aaron joins me. “It’s not you, it’s me. Your video is perfect. I’m just not that skilled.”

“Wait ... You built this from my video?”

“Your idea works, Meli.” Aaron looks at me in earnest. “You taught me how to do this. I’ve always admired woodworking, but you’ve given me a new appreciation for the craft. I never would have had the courage to pursue this if you hadn’t been so passionate. Think of all the other people you can inspire.”

I’m stunned and speechless and confused until, slowly, I make sense of what he’s saying and what this place is and what he’s wearing and where he’s been all day and what he’s been doing.

“Are you opening your own woodshop?” Here I’m struggling to keep mine together, and he’s been building his own all along?

“Not mine.Ours. Or yours, if you want it. I could be a silent partner.”

“Excuse me?”

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