I slowly made my way down the stairs as he closed the cabinet or door behind us. At the bottom, there was a huge space, a second garage, but this one was filled with piles of wood, partially finished cabinets, saws, and walls of hanging tools.

“We’re in the basement.”

He nodded, wiping his hand across a small high-top table in the corner that had two tall barstools.

“But how do you get here from the basement?”

“Hidden passage, of course. Sit.” He nodded to the other barstool and set the Happy Meal bags on the table.

I didn’t sit. Not yet. I milled around the shop, feathering my fingers over pieces of wood and cabinets sanded to perfection.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I made my way to the table, and he pulled his burger, fries, and sliced apples out of the sack.

He grinned, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “You.”

I climbed onto the stool, eyeing him, begging for him to look at me, to give me more than that one-word answer.

He didn’t.

We ate in silence for at least five minutes. In that time, he ate every bite of his lunch, and I ate two bites of my burger and maybe three fries because I was too distracted by him.

His secret shop.

His insane talent.

And that comment.

Me. He didn’t think he could do me.

“Do you want to cut, sand, or nail?” He wadded up his wrappers and shoved them back into the bag.

“Nail,” I said without flinching.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth as if he could wipe the tiny grin from his lips, but the knowing glint in his eyes couldn’t be missed. “Let’s sand. No sharp blades and no nails. We’ve made one urgent care trip since Rory left town. Let’s not have to make another.”

I used a french fry to trace my lips slowly.

Fisher snatched it from my hand and ate it. “Knock that shit off. You’re on the clock.”

“Okay, Boss.” I hopped off the stool and followed him to the opposite side of his workshop.

“These are nearly finished, but if you feel a few of the areas, you’ll notice they could use just a light sanding.” He rubbed his hand across the front of a drawer then took my hand and moved it where his had been. “Feel that?”

I nodded. “Light.” He handed me the sandpaper. “Very lightly. Just until it’s smooth.”

I sanded it. Felt it. Sanded it more. “Like this?”

Fisher feathered the pads of his fingers over it. “Perfect.”

My spine grew two inches with his compliment.