She ran.
Good.
If she had stayed another second, with Ben's suspicious eyes darting between them, he would have done something stupid. Maybe grabbed her hand and pulled her out of there. Maybe told Ben exactly what he was thinking when he found his ex-girlfriend on the floor looking like every dream he never let himself have.
The front door clicked shut behind jax, who'd gone out to "process the violation of his space." He stood in the hallway, the silence she left behind ringing in his ears.
He looked down at his hands. They were good hands. Strong. Steady. They knew how to measure, how to cut, how to build something that would last. But when he touched her, they felt clumsy. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with work.
He could still feel the exact shape of her under his palm. The smooth, warm dip of her lower back. Her skin was so soft. Soap and something sweet, like coconut. The memory of it was a brand.
He walked into the living room but didn't sit. Energy was coiled tight in his muscles. He needed to move. To work with his hands. That was the only way he knew how to make sense of things that didn't make sense.
His workshop is a converted garage unit a ten-minute drive away. He got in his truck but didn't start it. He just sat in the dark cab, her scent still in his nose. It was better than any perfume.
He started the engine, the familiar rumble doing nothing to settle him.
The workshop smelled of sawdust, linseed oil, and truth. This was his language. Wood didn't lie. It showed you its grain, its knots, its weaknesses. You either worked with them or you failed.
He flicked on the lights. The current project was a large dining table made from reclaimed oak. It was stubborn wood. Beautiful but full of character. It reminded him of her.
He ran his hand over the rough surface, then picked up a plane. He pushed it forward, a long, satisfying curl of wood peeling away. The physical rhythm usually cleared his head.
Not tonight.
Every scrape of the tool brought back the feel of her. The rough denim of her jeans under his knee. The quick, shallow sound of her breathing. The way her eyes, wide and dark, held his. She wasn't just scared. She was… aware. Of him. Of the space between them shrinking to nothing.
He put the plane down. This was useless.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. He had her number. Ben had left an old tenant list on the fridge months ago, and her name and number were still on it. Ella, 2B. He'd looked at it once and forgotten it. Now, it felt like the most important piece of information in the world.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He shouldn't. It was a line, and he'd already crossed about ten of them just by how he looked at her. By how he touched her. By the way he wanted to touch her again.
But he wasn't a man who played games. He saw what he wanted, and he worked for it. Simple.
He typed. Short. Direct. No room for misunderstanding.
Jax: You forgot your earring. The blue one. I have it.
He put the phone down on the workbench. He didn't wait for a reply. He picked up a piece of sandpaper and went back to the table, smoothing the edge where the plane had been. The grit bit into the wood, into his fingertips.
But he kept the phone in his sight. Every nerve in his body was waiting. The silence of the workshop was different now. It was a listening silence.
An hour passed. No reply.
Maybe she wouldn't answer. Maybe she'd block the number. The thought sent a cold slice through his gut. He didn't like it.
He was sanding the same spot for the third time when his phone finally lit up.With a call. From Frank, his foreman.
He answered, putting it on speaker. "Frank."
"Jax. You sound like you're chewing nails. Everything alright?"
"Fine. Working."
"On a Tuesday night? Girl trouble," he stated, like he was diagnosing a faulty joint.
"Not trouble."
"Ah. It's the before trouble. The good kind. The kind that makes a man sand a hole through a two-inch oak slab."
He looked down. Frank was right. He'd nearly sanded through the veneer in one spot. He cursed under his breath.
Frank chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Just don't screw it up, kid. Whatever she is, if she's got you this twisted before you've even had her, she's worth the headache. Now, the reason I called. The Jefferson job. They moved the delivery up. We need the built-ins installed Friday, not Monday. Can you handle it?"
"Yeah. I'll be there."
"Good man. And Jax?"
"Yeah?"
"Buy her flowers. Or a new hammer. Whatever she'd like. But do something. Men like us, we think with our hands. Sometimes we gotta remember to use 'em for more than work."
Frank hung up. He was a pain in the ass, and usually right.
He put the phone down. Flowers felt wrong. Too soon, too pretty for whatever this spark was between them. A hammer was closer, but still not right.
His eyes landed on a small, leftover block of cherry wood on the scrap pile. It was about the size of his palm, rich red-brown, with a beautiful, subtle grain. Without really thinking, he picked it up, along with a chisel and his detail knife.
He didn't plan. He just started to carve. Shaving away tiny curls of wood, following the shape that was forming under his fingers. It was rough, instinctive. A shape was emerging. Rounded. A heart. But not a perfect one. One with a slight dip at the top, a full curve at the bottom.
Like a locket.
He was carving her a damn heart from a scrap of wood. Frank would laugh himself sick.
His phone buzzed. A text.
His blood went still.
It was from her.
Ella: I was wondering where that went. Thank you for finding it.
Simple. Polite.
He stared at the words. Then he typed back, just as simple.
Jax: When do you want it?
Three dots appeared. They bounced, then stopped. Then started again. She was thinking. Debating. He could feel her hesitation through the screen. It was a tangible thing.
Finally, her reply came.
Ella: I can come by tomorrow evening. If that's okay with you.
A slow heat spread through his chest.
Jax: It's okay.
He sent it. It was more than he should have said. It was an offer. A suggestion.
The three dots appeared again. Then her final message.
Ella: Okay. See you then.
He put the phone down. The carved wood heart was warm in his hand from his grip. He looked at it, then at the text on his screen.
Okay. See you then.
The game wasn't on.