Confessions from the Quilting Circle by Maisey Yates (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

“No. I learned it. From life. Also, your drywall here is moldy. And it’s beyond saving. So I have to put in a couple new panels and I have to break them out to get new ones in.” He shrugged. “So it’s not a saying so much as just the situation here in your house.”

“Great. Good to know.”

He was sharper now than he’d been.

She crossed her arms, resting her latte against her elbow and leaning against the doorway. She stared at his profile, at the solid motion of his shoulders, his arms, as he swung the hammer. He was... Well, he was good at this.

Practiced. His every movement was forceful, but economical. He didn’t waste energy or movement. He found the most direct path and took it. And she could tell herself that she enjoyed that because what she appreciated was professionals. In any capacity. People who worked hard at what they did, and found a way to excel at it, whatever it was.

She was not looking at him because the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin fascinated her. No. Not at all.

“Did you have something to say?”

“No.” She felt weird and caught. “I just...” She hated this. This weird in between. The way he made her feel in between. The woman she was, the woman she’d been. Because it shouldn’t be possible. Because she had ample experience steering conversations the direction she wanted to. Because she had all the experience she could possibly want with good-looking men. And she didn’t do tongue-tied. Didn’t do dumb, ridiculous staring at a nice pair of arms. Because arms were just arms, and if she wanted them wrapped around her, she didn’t have any problem asking for it. And if she didn’t, she had no problem looking away.

She also wouldn’t look away out of embarrassment. If she wanted to look, she would look. There was no call making this weird. And she mentally was. So, she was going to stop that right away.

“So how did you end up as a handyman?” She wasn’t feral. She knew how to have conversations with people.

“Well, there came a point when I realized that I was good at a hell of a lot of things, and the collection of those things was quite handy.”

“Right. Great.”

“So you really went and became exactly what you wanted to be?”

“Almost,” she said. “I’m first chair. This principal position is open. I’m hoping for that.” She wasn’t quite sure why she told him that. Maybe because he’d said she wasn’t confident last time they’d talked, and that was patently ridiculous. So if he needed to see a little bit of confidence, she was happy to show it.

“Well, I’m my own boss,” he said, setting the hammer down and turning to look at her. Something glinted in his eyes that made her feel...it made her feel, which she wasn’t that big on.

“Good for you.” He hadn’t mentioned a personal life at all. And hadn’t asked about hers. And she was trying to figure out if she would have asked someone else. Because what she wanted was to treat him the way that she would anyone. Any friend that she ran into. Of course, you had to be careful. Because people could have just gone through a breakup or divorce or something like that. So there were definitely pros and cons to asking about somebody’s personal life, even if they weren’t an ex-boyfriend.

Not that that mattered. It was just she wanted to be no more or less curious about him than she would have been about anyone.

Her phone started buzzing in her pocket and she grabbed onto it, her heart slamming against her chest when she saw the familiar phone number. “I have to take this.”

She pushed to answer, quickly walking out of the house, out the front door so that she could get some privacy. “Hello?”

“Hello, Hannah.”

It was the Board of Directors for the Boston Symphony Orchestra. She knew Peter’s number and his voice well enough that she didn’t have to ask who it was.

“How’s the weather in Boston?” She hated herself for that inane salvo into conversation, but she also didn’t want to jump right into asking him about the principal position. Even though they both knew that was why he was calling.

“Getting to be too warm already. How is your family? I know that losing someone is tough. And often sorting through years of possessions isn’t any easier.”

The scarred floor of the Craft Café swam into her vision. Walking in when she’d been a child and had run to the candy counter. Shuffling in as a teenager, knowing Gram would make her knit. Coming in today, knowing Gram wouldn’t be there.

And she shoved it to the side.

“Yeah.” She nodded, focusing on one fluttering leaf on the tree in the front yard. The sunlight filtered through it, and it wiggled on its branch as the wind picked up. “Definitely tough. But we are making progress. And everything is on track, so... I’ll be home in September just like we talked about.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it. In regards to that, I wanted to be the one to call and tell you that we decided to go with Ilina Voychek for the position of principal violinist.”

“Ilina plays in LA.” The words fell from her lips before she could process them. Before she could make sense of what he had just said.

“She did. But she indicated to us that she was ready to make a move and... She came out and played with the orchestra. We were very impressed. She has a lot of experience.”

I have a lot of experience. It’s all with you.

She didn’t say that, though. Because she felt like the sky was caving in on top of her, pressing her down into the ground. It was impossible. It was just impossible.

She had done everything. Absolutely everything. Gone to the preferred school, put in the hours. She had... She had given up everything to end up in this