“Someone has to keep things on schedule. Are you ready to show me what you’ve got so far?”
Jake straightens up, rolling up his sleeves in that maddeningly deliberate way of his, the corded muscles in his forearms flexing. His lips quirk into a slow, knowing smile. “I’ll show you anything you want, Kelly. You only have to ask.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I curse my body’s reaction to him—my stomach fluttering and my pulse skipping like I’m still that teenager sneaking kisses with him behind the lighthouse. I can’t wipe the smile off my face. “We said professional, remember?”
“Of course.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “How could I forget? Kelly all-work-and-no-play Charleston.”
I give him a playful nudge and roll my eyes. “Some of us have grown up. You might want to try it sometime. We can’t all run around like teenagers flirting and carrying on.”
He leans back against the workbench, gaze searing. “Oh, I’m grown up, believe me. But it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re rolling your eyes like a teenager. Trust me, I know the look—I’ve got one at home.”
The words hit like a bucket of ice water, snapping me back to reality. Right. Adele. His daughter. I clear my throat, slipping into serious mode. “You’re right. Let’s get on with it. I’m sure we’ve both got other things to do today.”
Something shifts in his expression—his smile falters, just for a second, like my words hit harder than I intended. And for some absurd reason, guilt flickers through me. How is it that I’m the one feeling bad here? He’s the one who left me all those years ago.
The words are out before I can stop them, along with an insane desire to see that smile back on his soft mouth. “I’ll save the eye rolls for personal time.”
His face lights up, a flash of that boyish charm that used to make my heart race. “Good to know you’re not completely immune to me.”
We share a brief smile and then he shifts gears seamlessly. “Alright, let me show you what I’ve got so far.” He gestures toward a series of installations scattered around the workshop. “Everything’s coming along. Still some small details to finish, but we’re 99% there with the initial work. We just need your stamp of approval before we shift construction to site.”
We continue through the workshop as Jake leads me from one installation to the next. “This is one of the centerpiece structures,” he says, gesturing toward a beautifully crafted wooden archway. “It’ll go at the entrance of the festival, near the lighthouse.”
I run my fingers along the smooth surface. “It’s gorgeous. The detail work is incredible.” I don’t want to be so impressed, but I can’t help it. The craftsmanship is far beyond what I expected.
Jake flashes me a crooked smile. “Yeah, well, the team’s been putting in extra hours to make sure we’re ahead of schedule. I know how important it is to you to not fall behind.”
He turns to introduce me to a couple of his guys, who give me nods of acknowledgment before diving back into their work. Jake waves his hand at the pieces they’re working on. “These are the structural elements for the eco-friendly art displays you wanted.”
I take in the towering wooden framework they’ve been piecing together from upcycled wood. The beams are sturdy yet elegant. “It’s perfect,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if the vision I pitched would translate, but you’ve nailed it.”
Jake shrugs modestly, leading me to another installation in several large pieces—a circular pavilion with open sides, designed for the local handicraft gallery. The roof has slats that are adjustable to let sunlight filter through, or they can be closed if there’s snow or rain. “This one’s modular,” he says. “We can move the panels around to create different spacesinside, depending on how you want to lay out the exhibits. And everything can be stored and reused for next year’s festival, of course.”
I study it, imagining how it’ll look with crafts made by local artisans inside. “It’s even better than I imagined. You and your team have done an amazing job.” I glance at Jake. His hands are shoved into his pockets, that familiar look of quiet pride on his face.
“We’ve been trying to keep everything as sustainable as possible, like you wanted.” He indicates to a large pile of reclaimed wood stacked neatly in the corner. “Even the benches we’re building are made from recycled materials. And some of these benches will become permanent fixtures at the site so it can be used year round for community events, as we discussed.”
A mix of gratitude, of feeling understood and supported, washes through me. “You really listened,” I say. “Thank you.” The moment stretches just a bit too long before I quickly look away, focusing on the largest piece they’re working on, a stage that’ll host the festival’s performances.
Before Jake can say anything else, a loud clanking noise makes me jump, and I turn just in time to see one end of a heavy piece of metal slip from one of the machines, landing with a violent clang. There’s a groaning, grinding sound, and sparks fly as the machine begins to seize, gears screeching as they try to turn. Instinctively, I step back, my heart pounding, but Jake doesn’t hesitate.
“Everyone, back up!” Jake says, moving forward. He reaches for the machine’s emergency switch, yanking it off. The grinding noise halts abruptly, but the air is thick with tension, the metallic tang of burnt oil lingering.
“What happened?” someone asks, eyes wide, and worry flashes through the small group gathered around.
Jake’s expression is focused, unruffled. “Just give me a minute.” Without missing a beat, he crouches beside the machine, reaching carefully into the small space. His fingers work quickly, examining the parts, brow furrowed with concentration. He mutters under his breath, adjusting the bolts, his hand steady as he loosens a gear to ease the part back in place.
“Careful,” I whisper, pinching the back of my hand twice, then twice more, worry creeping in as I watch him work inches away from the machine’s sharp gears.
He glances up at me, offering a reassuring look. “It’s fine. Just a loose bracket—common enough with these older machines.” He turns back, twisting a bolt into place before tightening it with a quick snap of his wrist. He pulls back, testing the part with his hand, making sure it’s secure before giving the machine a firm pat.
“All right, let’s see if that did it,” he says, standing and wiping his hands on his jeans. Everyone around seems to hold their breath as he switches the machine back on. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, with a soft whir, it kicks to life, purring smoothly as though it never missed a beat.
“Good as new.” He glances around at the group. “But keep an eye on it, yeah?”
He looks at me across the workshop, and for just a second, our eyes lock. Heat expands between us. It’s impossible to ignore it. There’s something about the way Jake handles things under pressure, how nothing seems to faze him, that hits me deep inside.
He comes back to my side, and we finish inspecting the other pieces together. They’re all amazing—both beautiful and functional. Once I’ve signed off on all the installations, we walk back toward the workshop’s entrance side by side.
