Her hand covers mine, guiding the brush in smooth, even strokes. Her breasts brush my back, her breath warm near my ear. My pulse jumps, and the flannel scent wafting from Emily intensifies with sudden awareness.
“Steady pressure,” she murmurs. “Let the brush do the work.”
Our joined hands move across the wood grain. The simple touch jolts through me, charged with possibility. When she steps back, cold air rushes into the space between us, and I suppress a shiver.
“Got it now?” she asks.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Emily stands two feet away, but the distance might as well be inches for how much her presence affects me.
As we apply the final touches, we set our brushes down at the same moment, surveying our completed work.
Satisfaction radiates from Emily as she crosses her arms, a small smile playing at her lips. “Beautiful work. No one would believe it’s a beginner’s project.”
I turn toward her, caught off guard by her pride. “I had an excellent teacher.”
Her gray eyes meet mine, flecks of silver catching the sunlight streaming through the windows. A strand of her hair has fallen across her forehead, and my fingers twitch with the desire to brush it back. She stands close enough for me to catch the subtle shift in her pheromones, an undercurrent of inviting sweetness beneath the flannel.
My body sways forward, helpless to resist the gravity between us. Her pupils dilate into dark pools that promise everything I’ve only ever glimpsed in other people’s lives. Her lips part on an inhale, and her breath mingles with mine.
The workshop dissolves around us until nothing exists but this fragile, terrifying moment, where I hover on the precipice of kissing Emily, of falling into her arms, of finally discovering if she tastes as good as my imagination.
The harsh buzz of my phone shatters the silence, and I jerk back as if burned.
Emily doesn’t move away, though, until I pull out my phone, breaking the moment completely.
Disappointed in myself, I check the screen, and the email notification locks the air in my lungs.
Subject: Support Plan Review: Quinn Patel.
My fingers feel numb as I open it to scan the details. The meeting, scheduled for tomorrow, an hour before I pick up Quinn, will review support accommodations and reassessment of service animal requirements and classroom integration plan.
Carson’s name appears at the bottom as the meeting organizer, along with the school counselor.
My blood runs cold. This is it. Carson’s first real move.
“Everything okay?”
Emily’s question pulls me back to the present. I hadn’t realized how transparent my reaction must be, the sudden tension in my shoulders, the change in my breathing, the spike in my pheromones that probably fills the workshop with my fear.
“Fine,” I say, pocketing the phone. “Just school stuff.”
Emily studies me. “If you need to take off, the finishing is done. It will need to dry for twenty-four hours.”
“No, it’s—” I stop, unwilling to lie again. “It’s a meeting I need to deal with. About Quinn’s accommodations.”
I wait for the questions, the concern, the offers to help that would require more explanation than I can give.
Instead, Emily dries her hands on a shop towel. “Will Blake be attending?”
I shake my head. “It’s a preliminary meeting. I’ll find out what the issues are and report back to the Wright Pack.”
“If you need a second pair of ears,” she says, “I can take the time off.”
“Thank you.” My throat tightens at the offer. “But I think I’ll be okay.”
She accepts my response, and we clean up in silence, putting away brushes and sealing cans of finish.
When the workshop is returned to its pristine state, Emily gestures to the pieces we made. “I can store these here until your cabin is ready.”