of her longed to stay and sweep the edge of her knuckles gently against the planes of his bristled jaw, just to see if this rough-hewn man would shiver under her touch.
* * *
Why didn’t I get her name?
Trent gripped his umbrella and watched the beautiful woman hurry away. She seemed to glide along the slick wet pavement, lending a sense of elegance to her black old-school ankle-high sneakers.
Dark blue skinny jeans molded her slender hips and long legs. Her long neck reminded him of a swan, one of his favorite animals. When he was in college, he’d taken a zoology class and learned that swans mated for life. He had been fascinated with them ever since.
The green rain slicker zipped up high hid everything else, but he had a feeling he would like what was underneath, just as she seemed to like him.
His parents, whom he loved dearly, would soon celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Despite their insistence that he settle down, he wasn’t in a rush. Someday, he hoped to find a woman to love and protect for a lifetime. If the right woman stepped into his life, he wasn’t sure if he could make the leap from bachelor to husband. It was the permanence of marriage and the statistics of divorce that frightened him more than the fear of being alone for the rest of his life.
Like a cold engine, relationships were tricky to start, and even harder to keep going. Up until now, he hadn’t had the patience or the time.
But this woman, she was different.
The luminous glow of her caramel toned face would no doubt stay in his mind for a long time. The undercurrent of seriousness in her demeanor was equally attractive, although he had no idea the reason behind it.
The offer to launder his shirt had surprised and delighted him. This woman was a giver, not a taker. He could feel it.
The sense that he’d lost something he didn’t know he could have had grew stronger as she disappeared into the college’s nondescript administrative building.
He always made the first move, but this time he hadn’t. Big mistake.
He retracted his umbrella and looped his arms through the straps of his backpack. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be late, too. His heavy boots slapped against the cement as he walked toward Reed Hall, inhaling the rain-fresh air into his lungs.
He pinched the bottom of his T-shirt, wicking it away from his skin. He needed to change the thing before doing anything else.
When he got to the building, he ducked into a nearby men’s room and looked in the mirror. The shirt wasn’t the problem. He always kept an extra one or two in his backpack because getting dirty was just part of his job. He was a simple man, who liked to be prepared for anything.
When he got thirsty, he drank. On a hot day, he’d been known to unscrew the cover of his five-gallon water jug and pour the whole thing over his head. That was why he always carried two in his pickup truck.
When he got hungry, he ate. He eschewed all types of red meat, in favor of fish and vegetables.
And when he got lonely, his contact list was full of women to choose from. Sometimes, he’d scroll for one. Make a hit. Roll over and say goodbye.
Lately, he wanted more substance in his relationships. Not an immediate yes, and certainly not a please yes. He loved the thrill and the challenge of the chase, because it was something he could control and build upon.
Day by day, night by night, fight by fight.
That exquisite internal yearning. Not knowing if he was on a woman’s mind, even though she occupied his, or whether she truly wanted to be with him and him alone.
He glanced into the mirror, and could see the need and loneliness in his eyes. The wet shirt wasn’t the problem. The beautiful mystery lady was the real shock to his system, and he wanted more of her, and he had no idea how to find her. Maybe he should have been a detective rather than a builder.
Trent changed into a dry shirt and washed his hands, ignoring the sudden cramp in his stomach. Being nervous did not mesh with his normal levelheaded demeanor.
He liked to build things and tear them down. As part owner of Waterson Builders, one of the largest construction and real-estate companies in Bay Point, he got paid to do both. Working his craft was easy, but trying to teach it? He was still trying to figure out why he’d agreed to stimulate adult female minds with the basics of home repair.
His older brother, Steve, the other half of the family company, was originally scheduled to teach the class. Trent smirked in the mirror, recalling how Steve had called him last night and begged him to take his place. His brother might be a pain in the ass, but he was no fool. The only reason he had asked Trent to step in was because he knew that he would say yes.
He shook his head and though he was tired of bailing his brother out, family was numero uno. His parents had drilled that into his head ever since he was a kid.
Steve, who was quite selfish and preferred to be in the spotlight, hadn’t gotten the message. Unlike his brother, Trent would rather be in the bucket seat of a dozer.
He pushed his family issues to another corner of his mind and opened the door to the woodworking shop. The chatter in the room immediately stopped, and when he saw who was in the first row of worktables, so did his heart.
“Welcome to Everyday Repairs for Women. I’m Trent Waterson, your instructor.”
Sonya’s mouth dropped open and she almost did a double take as he thumped his backpack down onto the old wooden desk at the front of the room.
The man from the coffee shop was her teacher?
He’d changed into a plain white cotton shirt. Though it appeared worn, on him it looked as though it had cost hundreds of dollars.
He scanned the room with a friendly expression on his face. There was no outward indication that he recognized her. Her heart sank with disappointment. They’d only met fifteen minutes earlier. While she didn’t expect him to jump up and say hallelujah, was she that forgettable?
“If you’ve come here to learn how to fix things, you’re in the right place,” he continued, palms flattened on the desk. “Though I must warn you, this class will probably not be as exciting as some of the home-improvement shows you may have seen on television, but I do promise you’ll have fun.”
Sonya detected a hint of a tremor in his authoritative voice, and she looked around the room, wondering if anyone else had heard it, too.
The faces of her classmates were frozen in rapt attention, hanging on the edge of his next word, and she held back a grin. Mr. Waterson must have been the reason for the long waitlist. Lucky for her, a spot had opened up.
Turning her attention to the front of the room, she found the possibility that he might be even a tiny bit nervous very intriguing. It made him as real as the muscles she’d felt on his abdomen, and the spark of attraction she’d felt between them.
Violet, a diminutive light-skinned woman with purple tinged strands
