Every confession made, promise laid down at your bedside
Noah wasn’t sure what he expected her to say—but it certainly wasn’t that.
For a moment he simply blinked at her, trying to align the pieces: the elegant woman dripping snow onto his floor, the bright smile masking strain, the word gala spoken like it belonged somewhere with chandeliers rather than crooked old rafters. His workshop felt suddenly too small, too rustic, too him.
And she was looking at him as though he might be able to fix the very thing unraveling her day.
He cleared his throat again, slower this time, and straightened from the workbench. He could feel the heat in his ears and was certain the color was drifting to his cheeks, and the very awareness of that probably made it turn more to crimson than a soft whisper of blush. “Help,” he echoed, as if testing the word, “with a… gala.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the shelves—rows of toys in various stages, his commitments for the coming week, his ideas for the next new thing, or the nostaligc old favorites he kept stocked year round. He couldn’t help but think that the sheer volume of toys necessary for such an event would look differently than his. Instead of hand carved wood they would be made of plastic from dye molds. Instead of hand painted details they would boast the bright, even, and perfect color from their manufacturer.
He flicked his glacier eyes back to her.
She looked tired beneath that bright polish, the kind of tired that wasn’t from the storm but from running headlong into problems no one else could solve. Noah was familiar with that look. The pleading look in her eyes tugged at something quiet inside him. He’d never been good with people in distress—words tended to tangle if he tried too hard—but he knew what it was like looking at someone that felt like the last hope.
”How many toys are we talking?” he asked, stepping out from behind his counter, more present now. His voice steadied. ”And what kind of deadline?”
Her mention of her boss wringing her neck earned the faintest flicker of a smile from him. He gestured toward a shelf of finished pieces—sleek wooden tops, painted whistles, a row of small animals that rocked when nudged. “If it’s for a charity event, I can donate some of these outright. And… if you need more, well…”
He paused. ”I’m afraid I am no Toys-R-Us.”
For a moment he simply blinked at her, trying to align the pieces: the elegant woman dripping snow onto his floor, the bright smile masking strain, the word gala spoken like it belonged somewhere with chandeliers rather than crooked old rafters. His workshop felt suddenly too small, too rustic, too him.
And she was looking at him as though he might be able to fix the very thing unraveling her day.
He cleared his throat again, slower this time, and straightened from the workbench. He could feel the heat in his ears and was certain the color was drifting to his cheeks, and the very awareness of that probably made it turn more to crimson than a soft whisper of blush. “Help,” he echoed, as if testing the word, “with a… gala.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the shelves—rows of toys in various stages, his commitments for the coming week, his ideas for the next new thing, or the nostaligc old favorites he kept stocked year round. He couldn’t help but think that the sheer volume of toys necessary for such an event would look differently than his. Instead of hand carved wood they would be made of plastic from dye molds. Instead of hand painted details they would boast the bright, even, and perfect color from their manufacturer.
He flicked his glacier eyes back to her.
She looked tired beneath that bright polish, the kind of tired that wasn’t from the storm but from running headlong into problems no one else could solve. Noah was familiar with that look. The pleading look in her eyes tugged at something quiet inside him. He’d never been good with people in distress—words tended to tangle if he tried too hard—but he knew what it was like looking at someone that felt like the last hope.
”How many toys are we talking?” he asked, stepping out from behind his counter, more present now. His voice steadied. ”And what kind of deadline?”
Her mention of her boss wringing her neck earned the faintest flicker of a smile from him. He gestured toward a shelf of finished pieces—sleek wooden tops, painted whistles, a row of small animals that rocked when nudged. “If it’s for a charity event, I can donate some of these outright. And… if you need more, well…”
He paused. ”I’m afraid I am no Toys-R-Us.”
Noah
Guiding a broken heart through the edge of dark
