Total pages in book: 20
Estimated words: 18976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 95(@200wpm)___ 76(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 18976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 95(@200wpm)___ 76(@250wpm)___ 63(@300wpm)
Her beauty is raw right now, and as much as I can tell that embarasses her, I like her like that. I can see her curvaceous form for what it is in those jeans, her long, flowing brown-black hair rippling in waves down her back. It leads up to frame her face so beautifully, her face’s features as soft as she is, and her hazel eyes shyly looking up at me. Her nervous smile is sweet, but I can already tell there’s going to be some fire there once she gets over her anxieties about her not being as perfect as she thinks she can be.
She’s perfect already, and I think if I persist in telling her, it may well start coming out as kinda creepy.
Instead of laying it on any thicker, I try to keep my focus on the whole reason I came here in the first place, which is the gazebo Hunter is building. I run my hands over the wood, looking for any problematic warps and defects in it.
“So, are you a carpenter like Hunter?” Char asks as she follows me, interested in me being interested in other things.
“Not so much. We both know how to cut wood, just for very different purposes. He knows how to make things by doing that. I just know how to knock down trees.”
She laughs. “You’re a lumberjack?”
“More or less. Why’s that funny?”
“Us city types see a lot of dorky guys with jobs like programmers and coders, going around with full fluffy beards, flannel, overalls, and wool caps. They look like lumberjacks in every way besides having the body that would come with felling trees. Like you have.”
I smirk. “I appreciate you noticing.”
“Hey, when I see something I like, I gotta go for it too.”
We both laugh.
“Just funny that after so many wannabes I waited for at the diner, I went and ran into the real thing.”
“You think I should grow out this beard?”
“I mean, I like what you have now, but some whiskers wouldn’t be bad either.”
“When I do some heavy-duty cutting with a chainsaw, I wear a heavy-duty mask. I don’t want to fill my lungs with sawdust after all. A big, thick beard wouldn’t let me wear it right. Maybe when it's time for a replacement I’ll find one that’s more beard friendly, but I’m ultimately a pragmatist: I don’t want to mess with something that’s working for me.”
She’s following my examination of the gazebo’s wood closely, still very interested in me being very interested in things.
“I guess you have the fresh outdoor air to counter all the sawdust though,” she says. “I’m really enjoying how clean it feels, after being in the city for so long.”
“You can taste the air through the scent of the brisket?”
She gives me a playful glance. “You know what I mean.”
“Maybe you’re more of an Evergreen Valley girl than you think you are, Char. It’s different out here. Slower pace. Less people, but you get to know them more.”
“Maybe I am. I came out here to try to figure out what I’m doing with my life. Right now I have no idea.”
“No dreams?”
“Sort of? I don’t know. I never got to slow down enough to really think about it all. Just going from job to job, and when I’m not employed.”
As I run my hand over the next bit of wood, I’m stopped. Something’s latched on to my shirt. Instinct takes over, I just try to power through, it and then I realize my mistake.
“Watch out, your shirt is caught on... Oh no,” Char says, her warning half a second too late.
I first look at the culprit. A nail that’s not hammered down all the way. Hunter or I made a mistake here, and we’d just have to fix it.
“Oh no, there’s a hole in your flannel,” Char says. And I confirm her worried-sounding statement.
“Damn, and I really liked this shirt.”
“It’s fixable,” she says. “Don’t talk about it in past tense yet.”
“Nearest tailor is in the city, and I don’t think I have the patience to drive that far for a shirt.”
“You don’t have to go anywhere. Stay right here.” She runs off the gazebo and down to her car. She digs through it, before coming back with a pink canvas bag. “Take off your shirt.”
My smile widens. “I thought you didn’t want to be so forward.”
She turns red, suddenly realizing her phrasing. “Well, I can’t exactly do the needlework with you wearing it. Unless you like being poked with sharp things over and over.”
“I’ll try anything once with you, babe.” I unbutton my shirt, and the two of us go over to a much flatter surface on one of the picnic tables near the gazebo.
She lays it out, focusing on the hole and pulling out a needle and thread.
“Didn’t expect a city girl like you to be a seamstress.”