Page 44 of No Contest
"And what exactly does that mean?"
"It means—look around. Everything's got a home." Even the sawdust looks organized."
"The sawdust isn't organized. It's everywhere."
"Yeah, but it's your everywhere." He stepped fully inside, ducking slightly even though the ceiling was high enough. "Smells like—" He inhaled. "Christmas and motor oil had a baby."
Hog cocked his head toward the speaker. "Wait—that's not The Who, is it? I figured you'd be a classic-rock guy. Stadium anthems, not… whatever this is."
"Pete—solo," I said, running the plane along the oak.
Hog's brows lifted. "Didn't peg you for deep cuts."
I shrugged. "This one's mine."
I turned back to the workbench, picking up the plane again. "I'm restoring this cabinet. Client wants it for their kitchen."
"It's ugly."
"It's under six coats of bad behavior." I ran my hand over the stripped section, feeling the grain underneath. "But the bones are good. Someone covered them up."
He moved closer, coffee in one hand, the other reaching out to touch the raw wood. His fingers were careful—surprising for someone who spent half his life crashing into people at thirty miles an hour.
"How do you know where to stop? Like, when you're stripping it?"
"You feel it. The wood tells you." I set the plane to a fresh section and pushed, another curl peeling away. "See how the grain runs here? You follow that. Try to force it the wrong direction, and you'll tear it apart."
Hog leaned against the bench beside me. "Sexy Bob Vila over here, talking dirty about wood grain."
"Bob Vila never had to put up with you."
"Bob Vila would've been lucky to have me." He sipped his coffee, watching my hands. "You're great at this."
"It's just carpentry."
"It's not." His voice shifted to a rough, husky tone. "Your hands—the way you use them. Precise. Sure. Like you were made for this."
My grip faltered on the plane, pulse thudding hard enough to blur the grain beneath it. "Hog."
"What?" He stepped closer, heat rolling off him. "Can't help it. Watching you work—every stroke, every press—makes me think of other things you could do with those hands."
I swallowed, throat tight. "You can't say that when I'm holding something sharp."
"Maybe I like a little danger."
I forced myself to focus on the cabinet, running the plane along the next section. The rhythm helped—push, release, curl of wood, repeat. "My dad taught me. Said you can't force wood into shapes not meant for it. You work with the grain, not against it."
"Smart guy."
"Sometimes." I paused, blade hovering. "Took me years to figure out he wasn't only talking about carpentry."
The morning light slanted through the dusty windows, catching sawdust in the air between us. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbled past.
I reached out, brushing some stray sawdust from Hog's shoulder. My hand lingered, feeling the solid muscle beneath the hoodie.
"My dad's rule worked both ways." I touched Hog's jaw, thumb tracing the line of his beard. "You can't force wood into shapes it wasn't meant to hold. But you also can't pretend the grain isn't there. Can't sand it away or paint over it. It's part of the structure. That's what makes it strong."
He was barely breathing, watching me intently. The air between us crackled like sawdust catching fire.
