Page 12 of Taken By The Wolves
My jaw tics. Of course, he's ignoring me again, like my words are blood whistling through his ear. Maybe it's my 'weak girly voice' that fails to pierce his thick lumberjack skull.
“Toast,” I say through clenched teeth, “is what I want.”
He barely glances my way. “Wait until you've tried this bacon,” he says, pulling a massive pack of streaky meat from the fridge like it's the Holy Grail. He grabs a skillet, sets it on the stove, and unwraps the plastic.
“But I said I want toast.”
The back door creaks open. Finn strolls in, shirtless, his hair a tousled mess and his eyes still fogged from sleep. He looks like he's rolled out of bed and directly into a Calvin Klein ad.
“Well,” he drawls, grinning. “This is a better view than I usually wake up to.”
His voice is pure sunshine and mischief, and it only makes Nixon look more storm-cloud grumpy in comparison.
“Do you think you can explain to this stubborn man that I want toast? Not bacon. Not sausage. Not anything else he thinks I might want. Just two pieces of bread, charred and buttered.”
Finn chuckles and shoots Nixon a look I can't quitedecipher. I suddenly feel foolish, like a guest who's overstayed her welcome and is now complaining about the color of the curtains.
“I'm not ungrateful,” I add, softer this time. “I… I don't like being bulldozed.”
Finn raises his hands, trying to smooth the tension. “How about coffee? That usually makes things better.”
“Coffee would be amazing,” I say with a sigh. “And then, a ride back into town.”
Another look passes between the brothers, subtle but loaded. I catch it, even if I don't fully understand it. I decide not to push. One emotional outburst per breakfast is enough.
“So, what do you do?” Finn asks, filling a mug and handing it to me with a smile that's almost too genuine to be real.
“I make furniture,” I say, taking a grateful sip. It's strong and hot, with the right bitterness. “I'm in town to source some premium wood for a client commission.”
At that, Finn's brows rise, and he gives Nixon another quick glance.
“Well, if Braysville is good for anything, it's lumber,” Finn says.
“And if Finn's good for anything,” Nixon chimes in without looking up, “it's furniture.”
“You make furniture, too?”
“Pretty much everything in this house has been crafted by my brother,” Nixon says, sliding two slices of bread into the toaster at last. “The coffee table, the kitchen stools, the bed…”
“Really? You made the coffee table... and the bed that I slept in?”
He runs a hand through his hair, cheeks going adorably pink. “Yeah. It's kind of a hobby.”
A hobby? That bed was a work of art.
“You're seriously talented,” I say, leaning in despite myself. “Do you sell your work?”
“He does it for fun,” Nixon says before Finn can answer. “We're too busy running our lumber business to start taking custom orders.”
“You have a lumber business?” I ask, stunned. “Why didn't you say something?”
Nixon lifts an eyebrow. “You didn't exactly give me space to get a word in last night.”
Fair. But also? Rude.
I ignore him and focus on Finn, who clearly wants to say more. “You should think about selling your stuff. I know a few clients who'd jump at the chance to own pieces like yours. And I could help with marketing, exposure, and selling online. I take a percentage, of course, but the profit would be all yours.”
Finn's eyes meet mine, and they're practically sparkling. “You'd do that?”
