Page 40 of Neat
Mistake.
“Still need help with the shop tomorrow?” Chris read, mimicking a deep voice that I presumed was supposed to be Logan’s. He quirked a brow at me. “Help with what?”
“He likes to organize and clean and put things in their place,” I explained with a shrug. “I told him he could help me put the shop together this weekend, if he wanted to.”
Chris smiled triumphantly, tossing me the phone before kicking back and pushing play on the remote. “Sounds likefunto me.”
I sighed, looking at the text with every quiet voice inside me saying I should decline. Logan Becker and I should have had a relationship that existed only within the walls of the Scooter Whiskey Distillery. He as the Lead Tour Guide, me as the guide in training. He’d show me the ropes, and I’d try not to get him into any more trouble.
Because he was a Becker, and I was a Scooter.
That was where all the lines should be drawn.
But the louder voices inside me wanted more of the Logan I got that night we walked Main Street, wanted to know what other music lived on his playlist, wanted to crack his shell, loosen him up, add a little color to his life.
Maybe it really couldn’t hurt, I thought.Maybe we could be friends, hang out, have a little fun…
It was a stupid idea. Obtuse, really.
But it didn’t stop me from sending the next text.
Me:Tomorrow at noon. Wear something you can get dirty in.
I was obsessed with the little wrinkle between Logan’s eyebrows.
I stared at it all afternoon as he worked in my shop, opening up boxes and building furniture, hanging up signs and unpacking paint, organizing easels and brushes and sponges and cups. I loved how concentrated he was, how the same fire that fueled me when I envisioned the shop seemed to live inside him. It was like it washis, like he had something to fight for with me — something to lose.
We’d worked tirelessly all afternoon, and made a substantial dent in what was previously complete chaos. The studio was actually beginning tolooklike a studio, like a business, like what I’d always dreamed it could be. I could finally see the little sections I’d imagined, the division of the wide space, the different themes of each that helped them stand out while still bringing a cohesive feel to the shop.
My chest was light, wings fluttering against my rib cage.
It’s happening. It’s really happening.
The 1975 played on Logan’s speaker — which he’d brought with him at my insistence. I’d offered a suggestion from time to time, but for the most part, it’d been his music, his favorite bands and artists, and I loved getting a sneak peek inside his soul. He listened to everything from yacht rock and country to folk and classical — and he knew the words to every single song that came on. My favorite songs were the ones he couldn’t help but belt out rather than just quietly singing along.
Right now, he was bobbing his head along to “Sincerity is Scary,” one hand holding a slice of the pizza I ordered us for dinner and the other making more notes as he looked around the room at what we’d done and what was still left to do. I sipped on the sweet tea I’d made, watching him.
I’d told him to wear something he could get dirty in, so I guess I had myself to blame for the traveler sweat pants hanging off his hips, leaving practically nothing to the imagination when it came to how round and firm his ass was — as well as what he was packing in the front. And if those pants weren’t already a distraction, the old, ripped, slightly stained Stratford High t-shirt he wore with the sleeves ripped off in such a haphazard way that the muscles that lined his ribs were visible, would have done the trick. When he’d first taken his jacket off, I’d had to turn away, clearing my throat and commenting on something about the mess of boxes to keep from staring.
Now, after a long day of working, his hair was disheveled, curling out from under the edge of his ball cap.
And that little wrinkle was present, his brows furrowed in concentration.
I bit my lip, watching him balance that slice of pizza in one hand as he made notes with the other. I swear, Itriedtalking myself out of what my fingers ached to do most, but instinct won out.
I slipped off the little bar stool I was on — one that would be used in the painting corner of the studio — and crept to the back office. My camera was on the desk there, and I strapped it around my neck, fussing with the lens and settings before I made my way back into the shop.
I stood off to his left, the setting sun casting his strong profile in an orange glow through the large shop windows. Shadows stretched out behind him, and I lifted the camera, looking through the viewfinder at my subject just as he furrowed his brows even more, jotting something down on the notepad.
Click.
The sound was soft and quiet, but still audible over the music, and Logan’s head popped up, searching for the source. When he saw me still looking at him through the camera lens, he grinned.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
I shrugged, lowering the camera. “Just testing some of the settings,” I lied. “It’s the golden hour, great time for shooting. I wanted to see how the light came through the windows.”
He nodded, the corner of his mouth still quirked as he watched me from across the studio. “You’re really into photography, huh?”
