He called. We met for a drink after he got off work. He ordered a beer but didn’t touch it. I refused the second drink, because even a buzz might have me ending up somewhere I wasn’t ready to end up. We talked and then I went to my home and he went to his.

Two days later, he called again. We met for coffee. We talked. He propositioned me in a completely non-subtle way and was totally nonplussed when I refused. Then I went to my home, and he went to his.

That weekend, he called again. I worried about how happy I was but was even happier it wasn’t a butterfly kind of happy. It was because I had a great time when we hung out, and I wasn’t feeling as guilty when I turned him down. Of course, that was mostly because he never seemed angry and his frustration didn’t affect his attitude. In fact, it made him more amusing. I think he was pretty used to always getting what he wanted, at least when it came to women.

“What do you want?” I put him on speaker while I cut some veneer to use on an Edwardian writing desk that was in terrible shape.

“I ran out of cash, and I need a drink.”

“Liar.” But in a non-hurtful way, which was a nice change from all the other liars I’d met.

“I’m not lying. I need a drink. A big one. Or multiple smaller ones.”

“I’m at work, Carson.”

“Great. Do you have liquor there?”

“You don’t even drink, do you?”

“I drink all the time, but not in public. I stick to closet drinking—it’s easier to hide my shame that way.”

I laughed. “Fine, I’ll take you out for a drink.” It would take me at least twenty minutes to clean up. “But I’m a mess.”

“Then we should probably go to my place instead. You can take off your clothes and get cleaned up.”

I groaned when he so obviously forgot to mention me putting my clothes back on. I gave him the address of my shop. “There’s a pub down the street. They won’t care how dirty I am.”

“But I care very much how dirty you are.”

“Twenty minutes, Carson. Think you can handle it?”

“I think I’m already halfway there.”

---

I’d just finished rinsing the last brush when I heard an impatient knock on the metal door.

“Lane! Are you alright in there? Should I call the police?”

What was he talking about? “I’m coming!”

He was leaning against the doorframe looking around the area, grimacing. “This is not at all what I was expecting.”

“When I said I work in the Warehouse District, you didn’t know there would be warehouses?”

“I thought you were joking. Only Dexter works in a place like this. You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

I ignored him, going back to put my tools away and make sure all the jars and cans were tightly closed.

“Hey, Lane? You know all your furniture’s broken, right?” He opened and shut the drawer of the writing desk.

“Be careful with that! Really careful.”

“Did you make it?”

“It’s over one-hundred years old.”

“Wow. I figured you for your early twenties. You’re holding up really well for an old lady. I’m down with the cougar thing, though, don’t worry.”

“I’m fixing it. That’s how I make a living—repairing and selling antique furniture.” I nodded towards a coffee table I’d built from debris and reclaimed wood. “I made that one. It’s about three years old.”

“When you told me you sold furniture, I pictured a store full of cheap mattresses and bedroom sets imported from China.”

“Nope. That’s what I’m working up to.” I held up my crossed fingers. “Every girl needs a dream.”

“I want it.” He looked up from the coffee table and reached for his wallet. “Do you take credit cards?”

“You don’t even know how much it costs.”

“Okay, how much does it cost?”

“Sticker price on my website is fifteen-hundred dollars.”

“Great. Do you take credit cards?”

I expected him to at least pause, if not completely reconsider. I was so used to everyone thinking my art was ‘sweet’ or ‘interesting,’ I wasn’t sure how to react to someone taking it seriously. Taking me seriously. Even my parents didn’t think I could do it. They hadn’t said anything outright, but I could tell they still thought it was my ‘little hobby.’ That’s why I left San Diego and came up north—well, that and to be with Kevin, my last frog. I wanted to be around more people who understood. Unfortunately, there were about twenty artists to every art buyer and fifty to every gallery owner, so I still wasn’t even close to proving my parents wrong.

Carson didn’t seem like an art collector, other than his tats. And somehow, buying one of my pieces to humor me seemed even worse than if he’d just ignored it. But I wasn’t in a position to refuse money, either.

“Do you really want it?” I asked. “Because I have no qualms about taking your money.”

“Then you should answer my question.”

“Yes, I take credit cards.”

“Do you deliver? If so, can you do it naked?”

I took his card. “That would be an additional charge, and it would be way over your limit.”

“What’s a limit?”

I knew he was joking, but I also knew his family had gobs of money, so it wasn’t that big a joke.

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s right for your place,” I said, pretending to hand him back his card. “I mean, it’s not made to withstand strippers dancing on it.”

“No problem. I already have enough that are. Anyway, it’s way too nice for my place—stripper-strong or not. I’m going to donate it to the auction.”

“The auction for your foundation?” I held out his card. “Take this back.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to charge you fifteen-hundred dollars for something that will raise money for sick kids.”

“But you were okay with price gouging if I was going to put it in my living room?”

“Just take it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” He walked away without his credit card. “Right after I compensate you for your time and I’m assuming a fair amount of nails and wood and things. Hopefully under fifteen-hundred dollars’ worth or you’re a terrible business woman.” He knelt down and ran his hand across the top.

“I made it years ago and nobody wants to buy it. If you don’t auction it off, it’s just going to sit there.”

“Gorgeous.” He wasn’t looking at the table. “Anyone who can’t see that is an idiot.”

I suddenly felt very exposed, my arms wrapping around myself to stop a shiver not brought on by the cold. “Yeah, well, it’s art. And art doesn’t sell. Especially by unknown artists with lame websites.”

“Take my money and use it to get a better website. It’s really beautiful, Lane.”

“It’s okay. If I could do—”

“I said it’s beautiful.” He looked at me with a raised brow.

“Thank you.” I leaned back on my worktable. “I have a lot more pieces sitting around here getting dusty, so if you take it, at least I’d know this one is sitting around not getting dusty in some rich person’s house instead.”

“Thank you, Lane,” he said with a small bow. “So why didn’t you ever tell me you were an artist?”

I shrugged. “I don’t feel like one most of the time.” Uncomfortable with the way he was staring at me, I started sweeping.

“I’ll have someone pick up the table and get some pictures taken for the auction catalogue.”

“Eric!”

“Huh?”

“Eric’s my roommate’s boyfriend. He’s a photographer, a really good one. He could take some pictures and send them to whoever you want.” It only seemed right—Eric would do it for free and would love the exposure. I was paying it forward and helping a good cause.

“Great.” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “You don’t fix broken drawers by any chance, do you? On young furniture? My dresser—”

“Yes, Carson. I’ll fix your drawer.” I grabbed my bag and put the basics in it. “And it will only cost you $999.”

“That seems totally fair,” he said, following me out. “Do you take credit cards?”

---

Ten minutes later we were in front of his apartment, somewhere that, thus far, I’d been able to avoid. “This was just a ploy to get me up to your place, wasn’t it?”

“Furniture! Damn it, of course! What better way to get a woman up here? That drawer has been broken for months. So many wasted opportunities. I wouldn’t have had to resort to picking up women in cafés if only I’d thought of it earlier.”

“You’re kidding,” I said as soon as we went inside. It was unbelievable. “It’s like a Barbie Dreamhouse, but not pink and with way more electronics.” It also screamed Danger Zone, but I would ignore that.

“That’s a terrifying description and, thankfully, not one I’ve ever heard before.”

“I just mean it’s so…” Perfect. Beautiful. “Spacious.”

After a quick, male tour—meaning he told me where the bed, the beer, and the bathroom were—he showed me the dresser that needed my help.

Shaking the drawer pull, he said, “It doesn’t do the forward and backward thing. Not sure why.”

It took me about three minutes and four finishing nails to fix. “You’ve got to be the least handy man I’ve ever met.”

“And that’s why I need you, Lane. Well, that’s one of the reasons I need you. The others are because I really enjoy staring at your breasts and after you finish laughing, you get this breathiness in your voice that’s a big turn-on, and I can’t stop imagining how your—”

I held up my hammer. “Stop before I accidentally hurt you.”