Page 8 of Auctioned to the Mountain Man

Across the workshop, Lily’s got her wrist stained as much as the arm of the rocking chair she’s working on.

I tell myself not to look up, not to take in her progress. Worst case, she fucks up the job bad enough that I have to go a shade darker myself. Best case, she’ll do a fine job, and I’ll be forced to listen to her excitement as I give credit where it’s due.

As if that’s a bad thing. Not bad, more haunting than anything.

Another curl of wood falls away from the cabinet door, floating toward the ground with the others. One perfect swipe, just like the others.

“Shoot.”

Hearing her whisper her displeasure, I lift my gaze.

She’s got a blotch of stain on her knee now, and she’s grimacing at the brown patch that’ll take some scrubbing to get off. If she’s the one trying to remove it, being a novice, it’ll take days. IfIwere the one to do it…

No. Stop now before you get ahead of yourself.

Reaching over, I grab my small piece of sandpaper and rub against the curls, leaving them perfectly smooth.

“So, are your brothers going to join us?” Completely clueless to what I’m thinking, she dips the tip of her rag into the gallon-sized bucket before working on the other arm. “Seems like you can use all the help you can get. Especially if you’re relying on auctions to find employees.”

“They won’t be coming. They stop by throughout the week.” Curling my fingers, each digit feels like rusted metal. With each piece, they grow increasingly stiff. “You’re all I have this weekend.”

Does she need to know that I told Bradley and Coop to stay far away from the workshop? Of course not. They can enjoy their weekend, and I can go without worrying about my siblings getting distracted by the beauty.

Besides, from that large shirt she’s wearing, she’s probably got a boyfriend of some sort. It’s a university shirt, so he must be far away to let a bastard like me buy her out.

The thought annoys me, and the fine details of my work are the ones to take a hit as I nick the wrong spot. Cursing under my breath, I try to fix my mistake. The wood is no longer smooth.

Minutes pass, and I lose track of time as I move to the other door, trying my best to make both perfectly identical. It’simpossible, of course, and that’s what is best about my pieces. The flaws point out the beauty. Still, I’m feeling more agitated than usual.

Lily hums under her breath as she puts all her focus on her work. Whether she’s aware of it or not, I catch her smiling a little.

The knot in my stomach tightens even more.

“So, where is this chair going to end up?” She pulls back and swipes at her forehead, unknowingly making another mark on her skin. “I hope you sell this one. With how much stuff you gave Poppy, it may be a bad idea to give others free stuff, too.”

Grunting in agreement, I pull back and grab a cloth to dab at my own sweat. “A friend owns an antique shop on the edge of town. He lets me put in a few pieces. That’ll be one of them.”

Ready to get back to work, I frown when she sets her rag down before coasting over to the other side of my shop. Looking at the few finished pieces, I can see her curiosity forming right away.

Dropping my rag, I’m on the move.

Lily doesn’t hesitate—she reaches out, her fingertips hovering over the golden oak finish of a table I spent days sanding to perfection. She’s not trying to be trouble, but that doesn’t stop my gut from tightening, my pulse kicking up as I close the distance between us.

My hand snaps out, catching her wrist just before her stained fingers can ruin the wood.

She gasps out, caught off guard.

The second my fingers lock around her, I feel it—the rabbit-quick flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb. Her other hand flies to her chest, gripping that ridiculous, oversized shirt like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Her eyes go wide, lips parting, cheeks flushing a shade of pink so warm it makes my teeth ache.

Pretty.The word lodges itself in my throat.

“Dry your hands before you touch things,” I mutter, forcing my voice low and steady. It takes every ounce of control I have not to let it crack, not to let her hear the way my breath wants to hitch.

Because I’m not angry.

I’m not even annoyed.

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