God, heistall. I'm five-four in my boots and I have to tip my chin up. His chest is like a massive oak…an oak I want to touch. Climb. Bite, a little.
"What can I do for you?" he says.
His voice is lower when he's looking right at me. Does he know he does that?.
"I need a belt buckle." I tuck my hands in my back pockets and rock up on my toes. "Custom. It's for my best friend. It's her birthday this week. She trains horses—quarter horses, mostly, and does some cutting—and she just got divorced. She's moving across three states for a fresh start and me and my friend want to give her something she'll burst into tears over. You know, the good crying?"
One corner of his mouth moves. It's not a smile. It’s theghostof a smile. "I know the good crying."
"I knew you would."
He leans a hip against the anvil and folds his arms, his biceps like boulders. "Got a design in mind?"
"Something western, obviously. Something with a horse in it. She'd want a horse. Maybe her initials, real small, tucked in somewhere. Clean. Not too fussy. She's alittlefussy, but she doesn't want anyone to know that." I shrug. "You're the artist. Surprise me."
He's quiet for a second. "Two hundred and fifty."
"Done."
His eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a half-second. I don't think he meant to, but the moment it happens his jaw tightens and his gaze snaps back up to mine as if he's angry at himself.
I smile.
He looks away and clears his throat. He reaches for a pencil stub and a scrap of paper on the workbench.
"When do you need it?"
“Wednesday? I know it’s tight, but her birthday dinner's that night."
"I can do that.”
"Perfect." I let a beat pass. "What's your name?"
He pauses, the silence stretching as he decides whether to give it to me. "Garrett."
"I'm Lark."
He nods once and writes it on the paper.
I push off the workbench and head for the door, taking my sweet time about it, too. At the threshold I turn and walk backwards a step, tipping my hat up with one finger so he can see my face. But he’s already looking. I caught him, and he didn’t even try to hide it.
"I'll be back for it, cowboy."
Our eyes lock and the forge pops softly between us. Somewhere way off a horse whinnies and there’s a giddy ache low in my belly.
Garrett doesn't say a word. He just nods, once.
I turn and walk out into the sun, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole way down the path. I don’t look back, because I have some dignity, and also because if I do I will absolutely trip over my own boots.
CHAPTER 2
GARRETT
It started out as a simple hook for a guest's hat rack, a commission I could do in my sleep with one hand tied behind my back. Now I'm thirty minutes in before I look down and realize I've flattened the scroll completely wrong on one side.
Ugly wrong. First-year-apprentice wrong. A mistake that should make me feel bad for a week, but I can't feel anything else at the moment besides the hum riding under my skin.
Herhum.Lark.