“Oh, that’s no problem, Mister, uh..” “Sanders.” Ryan’s deep voice made me look up from the shelf of cleaning products. What was he doing here in the hardware store?

I’d come in to get furniture polish and floor cleaner for the bar, wanting to tidy the place up in preparation for the open mic night tomorrow. Ryan had been in his room or in the basement since the incident with Andy, and I hadn’t had an opportunity to explain it to him.

Not that it’s any of his damn business, I thought. It was just a hug, and the guy really needed one.

Picking up the floor cleaner, I glanced up at the sales counter where Ryan stood. Even if it isn’t his business, it wouldn’t hurt to clarify things. Just so he doesn’t get the wrong idea about Andy and I. Because…well, just because it’s not good. That’s all.

“Do you have a delivery address for the timber, Mr. Sanders?” Sarah, the sales clerk, looked attentively at Ryan as he stood in front of her. While I watched, she wrote down his name carefully in the big order book, and brushed a lock of hair from over her eyes.

“Sure, uh, Sarah, isn’t it?” Ryan reached in the pocket of his leather jacket. “Hold on, here it is.” He handed over a piece of paper. “It’s Daisy McNeish’s guest house, if you know where that is.”

Sarah brightened visibly. “Oh, sure! Are you…is that where you’re staying, Mr. Sanders?”

Ryan shook his head. Behind him, in one of the aisles, I stared at the label on the floor cleaner for a moment. “No, I’m just helping her fix up her roof. It sprang a leak yesterday, and we need something waterproof to stop it until a carpenter can get up here.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you!” Sarah was quite young, I thought, and rather more impressed by Ryan’s—admittedly good—deeds than she needed to be. “I, uh, we, that is, can drop it off this afternoon. Would that be okay, Mr. Sanders?”

“That’s fantastic. Thanks, Sarah; I really appreciate it. And please, call me Ryan.” He pulled out his credit card. “Just put it all on here, and I’ll sort it out later.”

“Sure thing, Ryan. Do you have…do you have a contact phone number I could—we could—call you on, maybe later today?” From where I was standing, I could see the sales clerk flashing a smile at him. “Just to check the…service is everything you need.”

Hidden behind the rotating tool racks, I stared fixedly at the list of ingredients in the floor cleaner.

Polyethylene glycol, huh? What fascinating stuff that must be. I wonder how many ethylenes that is, exactly?

Ryan laughed. “I’m sure everything will be fine, but here’s my number just in case. Thanks again for all your help, Sarah.”

Yeah, I thought. Here’s my number ‘just in case’. Really subtle.

I was about to march up and tell him off for whatever it was he was doing, flirting with that poor young girl, and stopped myself, just in time. Ryan turned, and walked down the aisle of the hardware shop, and I ducked back behind the tool rack so he didn’t see me. Quietly, I berated myself.

What the hell are you doing, Milsom?

If Ryan wanted to flirt with every girl in town, it wasn’t any of my damn business.

I watched him leave the shop, shading his eyes in the doorway to adjust to the sunshine. If he wanted to kiss every girl in town—just like he kissed me, hot and hungry, as if I was the only thing he wanted in the whole place—I shook my head again, it wasn’t any of my damn business.

Marching up to the counter, I slammed the tin of floor cleaner down. “Just this.”

Sarah jumped. “Hi, uh, Cat.”

“Hi.” Get a grip, I chided myself, reaching for my wallet. This isn’t your business. You’ve got enough to worry about.

The sales assistant processed the sale and took my money. “Hey, is everything okay? You look a bit…bothered about something.” She blushed. “Sorry if I’m intruding.”

“Fine.” I snapped. “Just regretting a few poor decisions, that’s all.” Snatching up the tin, I turned on my heel and walked out, leaving Sarah with a mystified look in her eyes.

* * *

An afternoon of mopping the floor had improved my mood a little; whether it was the physical labor, or the satisfaction of standing back, leaning on the mop, and admiring the sparkling floor of the bar, I couldn’t say. There was something pleasing about looking out over the floor and seeing it clean, even if it was only going to get dirty again when people walked on it that evening.

There was a soft knock at the door, and I turned around. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Ryan stood in the doorway, a large canvas bag slung over his shoulder. “Hi. I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

He looked around, and, evidently convinced there were no shirtless men in the bar, stepped inside. I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed at him flirting with the hardware clerk, or embarrassed about him walking in on Andy and I. I decided to suppress both feelings, and try to go back to ‘friendly but professional’.

“No, nothing to interrupt. Come on in. Look, about that—”

He held up one hand, “Please, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’m just a guest.”

“But—”

“Honestly, it’s not my business. Also, I wanted to show you something.” He indicated the bag. “I borrowed some woodworking tools from the hardware store; they were really nice about it.”

I narrowed my eyes. Yeah, I bet she was. “Uh-huh.”

“So, I think I can make another handle for your wardrobe door. If you’ve still got the broken one, I’m pretty sure I can carve a replacement from some of the timber I found in the basement - you know it’s the same stuff? Same age, too.”

Despite my resistance, I was impressed. “I didn’t know you had woodworking skills.”

“Another stereotype of academics busted, huh?” Ryan smiled. “Actually I was a part-time carpenter through college, and heritage woodwork is a pretty important part of conservation. For the first two years after I finished my PhD, I wasn’t doing research; I was a conservator at a museum, so a lot of my job was working out how to repair things, or craft replacements for something which had been lost.” He sat down at one of the tables, dumping the bag on the floor and pulling out a couple of knives, along with a spokeshave and a small tabletop vise. “Hold on, I’ll get a piece of wood from the basement. Could you find the old handle for me, please?”

I inclined my head. “Done. And, since you’re doing this, the least I can do is get you a beer. Would you like one while you work?”

“I wouldn’t say no.” Ryan nodded gratefully, arranging his tools on the table, and rolling up his sleeves. While I pulled a pint, I tried not to look too obviously at his forearms.

Returning with the broken wardrobe handle, and sliding the beer across to him, I watched him set to work, studying the original handle, extracting the metal fittings from the splintered wood, and selecting a small piece of wood from the timber that had been stacked in the basement. As he worked, he talked to me, explaining what he was doing.

“This piece of wood is about the same color, so it’s a good choice as a replacement. It’s the same grain, too, which is important. Although the wardrobe itself is hardwood, this wood for the handle is actually soft enough to carve just with a knife. I can probably get away without needing a saw.”

I watched as his hands moved deftly over the piece of wood, selecting one knife, then another. “Each of these blade shapes gives you different effects on the wood; some make it easier to cut straight lines, some are better for curves. See here?” He indicated a long groove on the old handle.

“That was probably done using this kind of tool, so that’s what we’re going to do. Of course,” he smiled, “the person who made this the first time round may well have had to go out and mill the timber themselves, so I’ve got it easy.”

I was intrigued. “I thought you were mostly interested in preserving things.”

“Well, you’d be surprised.” Ryan put down his knife, and took a long swallow of beer from the mug. “Part of preserving the past is making sure that you can replace things the way they were. If something is lost, you need to find a way to remake it.”

“What if you can’t remake it?”

“Then you need to come up with a modern equivalent. Often it isn’t enough to just try and keep things exactly unchanging, because that’s impossible.” He gestured with the knife. “Just look around us, Cat. The human environment wears out; things change. So, if we want history to be really preserved, sometimes we have to reinterpret it, and sometimes we have to make our best guess as to what would have happened.” He shrugged. “It’s not always easy, and there are a lot of arguments, believe me.”

I pulled my chair closer. “Yeah, I see. But what about situations where you have a choice to save one thing or another?”

Not thinking of any specific situation in particular, like, for instance, my bar.

“Then,” Ryan put down the knife, and picked up a piece of sandpaper, “you have to try and save as much as you can of everything. No one piece of history or prehistory is more important than any other. And, we don’t always know what’s important and what isn’t.” He held up the new handle, next to the old, broken one. “What do you think?”

I looked at them in detail. I was impressed, I had to admit; the new one already looked almost indistinguishable from its broken counterpart.

Ryan saw my look, and smiled. “Yeah, it’s getting there, I think. Still needs some sanding, and the color will change a bit as it fades. But it’s pretty close. Maybe I’ll leave it out in the weather for a day or two.”

“Thanks for all of this.” I was suddenly struck by the generosity of his act. “I mean, you’re busy, and you didn’t have to do this.”

He put both handles carefully down on the table. “Honestly, I’m just glad I could be of some use.” Reaching over, he pushed the new handle toward me. “Here. Feel it under your fingers; it needs to not just look the same, it needs to feel the same.” As he did, our hands touched, his fingertips on top of mine. I couldn’t help shivering; something about his touch had the ability to set me thinking very surprising thoughts.

He was leaning closer to me now, looking down first at our hands on the table, and then back up to me.

“Feel the same, huh?” My voice came out low and throaty, and it surprised even me.

Ryan nodded, slowly, eyes fixed on me. “Yeah. One of the things I liked about conservation work is that you never know what you’re going to get. One day,” his fingers still hadn’t left the top of mine, “you could be doing what you expect, and then, all of a sudden…”

The air was very still between us. I tilted my head slightly. “All of a sudden?”

“All of a sudden, something can happen which is completely,” his index finger traced its way, feather-light, up the back of my hand, over my wrist, “and unfathomably,” up my arm, over my bicep, and over the skin of my neck, “unexpected.”

I blinked. Is this really happening?

I was inches away from Ryan, and where his finger had traced across my skin, it burned like fire. I felt desire rising in my breast, and I shifted in my chair. “Unexpected, you say?”

“Yeah.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Completely,” his index finger coming to rest on the point of my chin, and tilting my face toward him, “unexpected.”

Before I knew what was happening, I’d pressed my mouth onto him, and the sound of blood rushing in my ears had gotten steadily stronger, until I almost couldn’t hear his words. He kissed me back, and I was surprised at the force of my own passion. It was like a dam starting to crack, the sudden flash of what I now realized was jealousy in the hardware store adding fuel to my fire. I’d only had one taste of him, of his desire for me, and I wanted more. Pushing my mouth onto his, I tried to talk, but only muffled noises came out.

Ryan reached across and grabbed my shoulders, hard. I took hold of the front of his shirt, feeling the ripple of his muscles underneath it, and pulled myself off the chair toward him, still glued to his lips. Straddling him, I felt his hands slide up the back of my t-shirt, pulling me down onto him. I could feel his arousal now, pressing hard against me, and a shiver ran through my body. He breathed in deeply, hot and ragged, and I could hear the pounding of his heart as he kissed me back.

Somewhere inside me, I could hear a voice shrieking what the hell are you doing? You’re kissing him again?

But it was drowned out by a torrent of desire, and at this point I didn’t know that I had much of an answer.

My head started to spin. Slowly, reluctantly, I tilted my head back, and drew a breath, breaking lips with him. His hands were still pressed hard against my back, and his knee between my thighs, grinding into me.

He took a deep breath of his own. “Damn.” Still not moving, he looked at me, inches from my face.

“Is that,” I swallowed, “what you mean by unexpected, is it?”

Several seconds passed before he answered, releasing the grip of his arms around my body only a fraction, and tracing a line with his finger down the bare flesh of my back that made me arch involuntarily with pleasure. “Yeah. That’s a pretty good example of what I mean by unexpected.”