We've had a warm winter, and sometimes that makes it downright unpleasant in the workshop. But I do really love the work...the way I feel, the way it relaxes me.
Having already shed my workout clothes in favor of jeans, I throw on my goggles, a protective leather apron and thick gloves. Though hot, the fire is small, perfect for simple heating and hammering.
I pull out my tools and line them up near the anvil, fill my metal slack tub with water and I'm ready to work. Yes, this is much better. My forced concentration on the task at hand will keep me from obsessing over Jenna's impending visit.
I grab a flat shovelhead, commissioned by Goodman Meyer, a clan gardener. Holding it with a pair of tongs, I shove it into the fire, glancing at the clock to time myself. I'm deep in the middle of hammering--the rhythm and the force of the blows of metal against metal ringing through my arms--when I glance up at the clock again. I note that it's well after the time Jenna told me she would arrive.
Is she late? Is she not coming? Maybe she's changed her mind and doesn't want to help. My hammer falters, stuttering off the anvil, and I frown. I clench my teeth and try to focus, attempting to regain the concentration I've lost.
I start hammering again, trying to take my mind off of her, but with each hit I hear, "Not. Here," like a voice in my head, mocking me. I find myself first growing frustrated, then angry.
Why would she tell me she was going to be here at seven-thirty and not come? Would she call back? I glance at my phone over on the workbench and see no updates on the lock screen. I'm positive I have not turned it off.
Moments later, I get that weird yet familiar weighted feeling on the back of my neck and shoulders. Someone is watching me.
I swallow and my back muscles tense. I straighten, but don't turn around.
Chapter 5
Jenna
Thanks to Alex's kind offer of a ride on the way to her mom's house, I arrived on William's doorstep. Glancing at my phone, I saw that it was almost eight o'clock.
I knocked, wondering if he'd mind that I was late. Oh well. I shrugged, then after standing there for minutes with no response, I remembered that he'd told me to go through the front door and into the backyard.
Following William's instructions, I headed through the house. He'd helpfully left the way lit all the way from the front door to the back--again, helpfully left ajar. He'd done just about everything for me besides lay down breadcrumbs.
His house was big but modest. A lot of the furniture was mismatched but comfortable-looking. For an artist, he sure had no sense of style for home decoration. Not that I was one to judge. I still used plastic-framed posters and hand-me-down furniture to decorate my rented place.
I was glad I'd worn my sweatshirt when I walked into the yard from the kitchen and felt a cool breeze. The path to William's work shed was accommodatingly lined with solar lamps, and I made my way toward the glowing open doorway. Something mischievous in me wanted to surprise him so I bounced up on the balls of my feet, tiptoeing along. In my sneakers, it wasn't hard to be silent on the brick path.
A hammer rang against metal with a rhythm so precise it might have been operated by machinery. I knew that William was a blacksmith for the RMRA. He'd been doing it for several years, as a matter of fact, and I'd admired the pieces he'd made. After the weekend, I imagined he had a lot of work to catch up on.
But there wouldn't be any more blacksmithing tonight. We had important work to do. William had a duel to win.
I entered the workshop through the open door and, as I'd hoped, I caught him unaware. He was bent over his anvil, tongs in one hand and hammer in the other. He had goggles on and jeans with a full leather apron. I was briefly reminded of Hephaestus, blacksmith to the gods of Greece. But he had been deformed, and from what I could see, there was nothing about William's body that could even be remotely described as deformed.
His arms and back were fully exposed, and seeing him like this hit like a punch to the gut. A pleasant punch, actually. I inhaled a deep breath and drank him in, watching as his biceps and triceps bunched and stretched with the rhythm of his hammering. His arms were sculpted, strong--superb. I hadn't noticed under all that armor what good physical shape William was in. He'd never been unfit, but with all the working out and training he'd been doing over the last four months...now he was downright scrumptious.
My mouth went dry as I imagined those shapely, solid arms wrapped around me. Distractedly, I licked my lips and looked away, startled and even a little unsettled by this powerful jolt of attraction. I'd always thought William was good-looking and knew I was attracted to him. But it was never in a lusting, gotta-have-him sort of way. At least not until now.
Suddenly, the hammering stopped--along with the attractive ripple in his back muscles that accompanied the motion. Without turning, William straightened and said, "You're thirty-three minutes late."
My jaw dropped. How the heck did he do that? Had I been breathing too heavily or something? Damn. "Oh, uh. I'm sorry."
He adjusted where his hammer rested against the piece he was working on, but he still didn't look at me. "And you didn't ring the doorbell."
Oh shit. I'd completely caught him off guard...and he sounded pissed off about it. Though honestly, it was always hard to tell with him. He was like a Vulcan on steroids most of the time.
"My bad," I said, trying to stifle a little heat--both from embarrassment and irritation.
"Your bad what?"
"Uh..." Okay, now I was completely lost. "Huh?"
He heaved a sigh. "I'll be right with you. This needs more work before the metal cools." He bent over his work again, then added, "Oh, good evening. I hope you are well." He recited the words as if he'd learned that that's how you greet a person. Like he actually was a Vulcan who had just landed on the planet wielding his trusty guide, The Customs and Mores of Earthlings.
I blinked, wondering what I'd gotten myself into.
While I watched William finish his piece, I continued to be disturbed by how much the movement in his back and arm muscles fascinated me. I finally forced my eyes away, turning to take in the shelves of his workshop. Atop each shelf were pieces--some finished and some still in progress--all meticulously labeled with their intended destination. They were mostly simple looking, garden implements and lots of metal buckles for period-style belts, armor straps, weapon sheaths and canvas tents. People who made these other items depended on William to supply them with the hardware.
There were also more complex pieces that he'd obviously been using for practice. I'd read somewhere that it took years and years of fulltime work to master blacksmithing. This was William's hobby, but from the looks of his workshop--fully tricked out with his own forge and bellows--it was a serious hobby.
I also spotted a full suit of armor on a stand in the corner. It did not resemble the armor he'd worn at the duel, and I moved to get a closer look. In the process, I stole a glance at him again, noticing the play of light on his sweat-coated upper body as he bent to drop his piece in the bucket of water. With a slight hiss, it sank to the bottom while he removed his goggles and pulled his apron from around his neck.
I stopped in my tracks. Now his chest was fully exposed and I had to suppress a gasp. Heat rose to my face. Holy Artemis, he was hot. His chest was all sharp planes and masculine angles, and it looked very, very hard. I stopped fantasizing about touching him--and maybe even licking him--when I realized that I was staring, and he, in turn, was watching me stare. I spun and my wandering eyes once again focused on the suit of armor.
"Don't touch that," he said as my hand was halfway extended toward the breastplate. I jerked it back, flustered.
"That piece is broken and needs to be fixed...it's too delicate to handle right now."
"Huh. I was just wondering where the Ark Reactor was..." I snarked, still staring at the wall. "It's obviously not, um, not on your chest--" I cut myself off, thankful that he couldn't see my face.
Damn it. Flash some fine muscles and a stro
ng, male physique at me and I lost it like a schoolgirl. I swallowed the thick lump in my throat.
William pulled his piece from the water bucket--or at least that's what it sounded like. "That's not an Iron Man suit. Those don't actually exist."
I laughed. "Yeah, I knew that. I wasn't expecting you to go flying around or anything." I faced him again, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. "Are you finishing anytime soon? I haven't got all night, you know."
He blinked. "I'm finished. I just need to bank the fire. It won't take all night. Just a mere fraction of the night."
I would have laughed if I thought he was making a joke. But he wasn't, so that breath I let go was merely to help me blow off some steam. I was flustered and embarrassed--both at my reaction to him and at his lack of reaction to me.
If he were any other guy, he would have checked me out twice by now. Instead, he'd barely looked at me since I arrived.
In minutes, he was done and wiping his face on a towel that he'd pulled off his workbench. I took another gander at his chest...well developed and clearly defined pecs, firm abdomen, pale skin but not pasty with a light dusting of dark hair.
I took a deep breath and looked away, hoping I wouldn't have to ask him to put on a shirt. It was as if he read my mind. "I apologize for not wearing a shirt. The forge is very hot."
"Aren't you worried about getting burned?"
"Not with this kind of work. When doing big pieces, I wear better protective gear, but this was just a little shaping and finishing work."
"Did you make your armor?"
He shook his head. "I am only a beginner. I make simple pieces. That practice armor and my real battle armor were made especially for me by a master craftsman." I took a step toward him and he held up a hand. "Don't come any closer. I have a rule about visitors to my workshop. They are not allowed within fifteen feet of the forge."
"I'm typically a pretty big rule breaker. Give me a rule and I'll break it."
William frowned and then pointed to a sign posted above his workbench. It was hand-lettered perfectly in old-fashioned script with decorative scrollwork all around the edge. It stated that exact rule: Visitors - please stay at least fifteen feet away from fire.
"Don't break my rules," he said in a solemn voice.
I studied him for a long moment, not quite sure what I was expecting him to say. Just kidding. Or, Got ya! Either would have worked. But he was serious. Firm. And damned if it didn't make me want to take a few steps closer to him, just to see what he'd do. But that wouldn't get us off on the right foot.
"Well, I'll try to hold myself back, then. For your sake."
No reply. It was like I hadn't spoken at all. He was banking the fire, and once that was done, he began meticulously wiping down the tools before putting them in their exact spot. How did I know? Because there were outlines drawn on the wall behind the workbench.
I folded my arms over my chest and sighed loudly. I'd had about enough of William's workshop and his brusque manners.
As he continued, my eyes wandered back to that sign. I hadn't seen much of his work, but I knew he was an artist by profession. Mia had told me that he was incredibly talented. I wondered if he'd show me some of his other work if I asked him.
Twenty minutes later, he escorted me out of the workshop and said, "My gym is in the living room. We can work in there." He turned and locked the metal-lined door with three latches, all padlocked.
Without waiting for my reply, he spun on his heel to lead the way. Who had a gym in their living room? Apparently, a guy who lived alone and didn't do a lot of entertaining. More power to him.
William walked into the house and led me into a large living room, which looked fairly normal with a couch, game table and chairs. It was, however, conspicuously missing a television of any kind. Maybe he watched TV in the bedroom?
Along the wall in the gym area was a set of weights, a treadmill, a rowing machine and rolled-up mats. He bent and grabbed his previously discarded T-shirt and slipped it over his head. I was simultaneously dismayed and relieved, the former because he covered up the nice view, and the latter because I didn't have to studiously avoid getting lost in the manchest.
My reaction to his looks was a little over the top tonight. Was I having some kind of weird hormone rush, maybe? It wasn't like I'd been going through a dry spell, when I likely would get turned on by anything and everything.
It's just that I'd never really thought of William this way before. Tall and handsome, yes. That was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes. But maybe his epic reserve had previously discouraged me from viewing him as an object of lust.
I cleared my throat, attempting to clear my mind of sexy thoughts. "So...have you ever done any meditation exercises, or do you know of any calming techniques?"
William walked over to the wall, unfolded a big mat and laid it across the floor. He sank down on one end, sitting cross-legged without saying a word. I sat down facing him.
"No," he finally answered.
"Okay... So you want to tell me what happened at the duel?"
"Weren't you there?"
"I was. But I wasn't in your shoes."
He frowned. "I wasn't wearing shoes. I was wearing my armored boots."
Was he joking? William had never struck me as stupid--quite the opposite, actually. Maybe he was teasing in his usual deadpan way that made me think he was serious. "Well, I mean, walk me through it..."
"Walk you through what?"
I blew out a breath, my frustration level rising. "Are you bullshitting me with this?"
His dark brows pushed together. "You're aggravated. I probably should explain that I have issues with language. NTs are always using figures of speech instead of just speaking plainly."
"NTs? Is that like ETs?"
"No. ET means extra-terrestrial. NT means neurotypical."
"Neuro-what-ical?"
"It means that your brain behaves typically. Mine doesn't. English is not my first language."
I smiled, happy to find something I could relate to. "It's not mine, either. My first language is Bosnian-Croatian-Serbian. What's yours?"
"Pictures. Images. Other types of sensory input. But not words. Words came later." He shrugged, his eyes drifting down to the mat just below my knee.
"Huh...that's interesting. That's something you never really think about...the way you process thoughts inside of your brain."
"It's something I have to think about. All the time."
"I think in English when I'm speaking English and in Bosnian when I'm speaking Bosnian. But I don't have to worry about it. I guess that's the big advantage NTs have without really knowing they have that advantage."
He appeared to be concentrating on that spot on the ground while he listened to me. "When you think in the same language you are speaking, you don't have to translate. But everything comes to me in pictures first. So, for example, when you said filling my shoes, my first reaction was to see you wearing my shoes." He shook his head, shifting his gaze to my feet. "My shoes wouldn't fit you. It's a very funny image."
I couldn't help it...I started laughing. William was adorable in spite of the aggravation.
His dark brown eyes moved up my body slowly, stopping just above my chest, and where his gaze touched, my skin warmed. Damn, Jenna...you're out of control tonight.
"Anyway..." I said, steering the conversation back on course. I willed myself to not think about how much William was intriguing me with each passing minute. "I want to know what went on inside your head while you were fighting the duel. What exactly was it that caused the distress?"
He took a deep breath and then released it. "It was the crowd. I hadn't counted on that. I knew exactly what I was doing out there. I had a plan and I would have won, but..." He shook his head. "I hadn't planned on all the faces and the noise."
"And Doug made it worse once he found out."
He nodded but didn't say anything. His hands fidgeted as they rested on his knees.
"So
does that mean you don't do crowds at all? Theaters? Sporting events? Concerts?"
"No."
"Really? How do you see movies?"
"I wait until they come out on Blu-ray, or I go see them at Adam's house. He has his own theater."
"Wow. But what about big movies that you don't want to wait for? Like what about the new Star Wars movie?"
He shook his head. "I can't. Even if it's a movie I really want to see."
I frowned, wondering what that must be like. "Oh, that's rough. But maybe going to some places like that and exposing you to larger groups of people would help get you used to it?"
He seemed to think about that and then shook his head as if dreading the thought.
"Okay...well, there are techniques you can use to help calm you down. Visualization, breathing. When I was younger, I had really bad panic attacks. They were usually brought on by loud noises, so I had problems with certain types of movies, too."
He looked up from the floor, appearing surprised. "You're afraid of loud noises? Why?"
I hesitated. "Because...when I was little, the city I lived in was bombed pretty much constantly." His gaze rose slowly from my chin to my nose before it stopped.
"You lived in Sarajevo?"
"Yes. That's where my family is from. How'd you guess?"
"It wasn't difficult. You said you spoke Bosnian as your first language. Sarajevo is the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, in what used to be Yugoslavia."
"And you know more about it than ninety percent of Americans."
"The city was under siege for almost four years. Your family came here to escape that war?"
I sidestepped the small pang that I'd long since grown accustomed to. It was only like a distant shadow in the background now. "Yes--well, only my sister and I. We lived there 'til I was five, and then we were able to leave to go to Croatia before ultimately coming here with my aunt. But...my parents stayed there. My grandma was sick and elderly, and they didn't want to leave her. But at the same time, they wanted us kids to be safe so they made a difficult choice."
William rubbed at the stubble on his jaw and I tracked the motion, noting how square and masculine his features were. His perfect cleft chin was crisscrossed by a prominent scar that made me wonder what it tasted like. I swallowed, barely listening to his words as he continued. "It was a terrible war. I read a lot about it and watched documentaries. I didn't know that you were from there."