Page 26 of Summer Showdown
I led her through the side entrance directly into the workshop. The space was uniquely mine, with tools organized on pegboards, woodworking magazines stacked neatly on shelves, and the pleasant scent of cedar and pine shavings permeating the air.
"This is amazing," Lark said, turning slowly to take in the space. Her eyes lingered on the half-finished projects in various stages of completion—a rocking chair with carved spindles, a set of nesting tables awaiting final sanding, and the mahogany bed frame I'd been working on for months.
"It's my sanctuary," I admitted. "Where I come to think, to work through problems."
"I can see why." She ran her fingers along the edge of a cherry wood table, admiring the hand-rubbed finish that brought out the depth of the grain. "There's something peaceful about it. Purposeful."
I watched her explore, struck again by how naturally she fit into my world despite our different backgrounds. She moved with the same appreciation for art and craftmanship I felt, pausing to admire joinery details or grain patterns that most people wouldn't notice.
"So," I said, gesturing to the tandem kayak, "ready to decorate our masterpiece for tomorrow?"
She nodded, setting her bag on the workbench. "What's your vision for the final design?"
"I thought we could keep it simple but meaningful. The carvings represent Montana wildlife, connecting to the natural heritage of the lake. Adding in the herbs and flowers will add another sensory dimension."
"I love that." She began unpacking her bag, laying out bundles of fragrant herbs and flowers. "The regatta is as much about creativity as speed, right?"
"Exactly. It's about celebrating our connection to the lake and each other."
We worked side by side, weaving the delicate blooms into the decorations. I showed her how to secure the stems with thin, flexible wire that wouldn't damage the kayak.
Our hands brushed frequently as we worked, each contact sending a current of awareness coursing through me. We maintained conversation, discussing the festival events and making small talk, anything to avoid mentioning whatever it was growing between us.
But as the evening progressed and our kayak took shape, the pretense became harder to maintain. The workshop's intimate space seemed to shrink further, the air charged with electricity.
"This looks incredible," Lark said finally, stepping back to admire our work. The kayak was transformed—a work of art as much as a vessel for the race. The combination of carved details, vibrant wildflowers, and fragrant herbs created a multisensory experience that perfectly captured Wintervale's natural beauty.
"It does," I agreed, though I was looking at her rather than our creation. A smudge of pollen marked her cheek, and without thinking, I reached out to brush it away. My fingers lingered against her skin, and she went very still.
"Wade," she said softly, her voice catching.
"I don't want to pretend anymore Lark," I admitted, the words escaping before I could reconsider. "I can't. You're a beautiful woman, anyone with eyes can see that, but you're also bright, compassionate, and possessed of a strength andindependence I admire. You have layers... and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to know more of you... all of you."
Her eyes widened, breath quickening. For a moment I feared I'd overstepped, revealed too much too soon. Then she was stepping forward, closing the distance between us.
"I've been fighting this since that first day at the lake," she whispered, her gaze dropping to my lips. "Telling myself it was just part of the act, that I couldn't possibly be developing real feelings for someone I barely know."
"And now?" I asked, hardly daring to breathe.
"Now I'm tired of fighting." Her hands came up to rest against my chest. "It's been a long time since I've done this, but I want you, Wade. I've wanted you since the moment our eyes met, if I'm being honest."
The confession broke something loose inside me. I drew her against me, my mouth finding hers with none of the hesitation of our first kiss. This time there was only certainty—a hunger too long denied.
She responded with equal fervor, her arms winding around my neck as she pressed herself closer. The kiss deepened, my tongue sliding against hers as her fingers tangled in my hair. I walked her backward until she was pressed against the workbench, my hands spanning her waist to lift her onto its edge.
"Is this okay?" I murmured against her throat, trailing kisses down the delicate skin.
"More than okay," she gasped, head falling back to grant me better access. "Don't stop."
I had no intention of stopping. My hands slid beneath her sundress, finding the soft skin of her thighs. She shivered at mytouch, her own hands tugging impatiently at my shirt until I pulled it over my head and tossed it aside.
Her eyes darkened as she took in my bare chest, her fingers tracing the contours with obvious appreciation before she leaned forward to press her lips against my collarbone.
The sensation of her mouth on my skin sent fire racing through my veins. I gathered the hem of her dress, silently asking permission. She nodded, lifting her arms so I could pull it off in one smooth motion.
The sight of her in delicate lace underwear nearly undid me. Her breasts strained against the pale blue fabric, nipples already hard and visible through the thin material. Her skin was creamy perfection, flushed with desire.
"You're perfect," I breathed, hands skimming reverently over her curves.
