Page 45 of Fake Wife
He scoffs, flicking on a light switch, and the barn lights up. “I’m not embarrassed.”
Sure he’s not. He fidgets with his keys, takes the flashlights, and turns them off, setting them by the door, but I’m barely aware of his presence.
I wander inside, my eyes skipping and dancing over everything I see, unable to focus on one particular thing.
This isn’t just a workshop of a man with a hobby, this is the home of someone who thrives and lives on creating.
The smell of cedar and pine and fresh wood invades my senses. It’s beautiful, sweeter than I’d imagine, but it explains why he always smells like he’s taken a walk in the woods.
He’s also a complete liar. I turn back to him and smile, walking farther, my hand outstretched, fingertips grazing along the unfinished wood stacked before me. “This is spectacular.”
His place isn’t messy, it’s cluttered and filled, but not messy at all. The floor is swept clean, plastic garbage cans near one wall, filled with wood chunks and shavings, and two brooms stacked neatly by them. There are rows of furniture in different stages of construction, some stained, some not, some with hardware, some without. Barn-style wood doors are propped against one wall in different designs.
I am in complete awe of what he’s doing, what he builds. Most are the similar farmhouse, rustic styles I’ve seen scattered here and there in the home here as well as his own. But there are also other designs, with elegant scrolls, and rich, sparkling clean finishes on them, some with marble tops. Dressers and tables, along with chairs, are elegant and fancy.
And in one corner of the pole barn is a living room, set up completely with a rocking chair, a worn rug on the floor, and a television, along with a kitchenette.
The only mess in the entire place is from a few random beer bottles left on worktops and by the sink in the kitchenette.
I’ve seen photos of Eleanor Lane, a petite and thin woman with beautifully silvered hair that rested right on her shoulders. Until the day she died, she was gorgeous, refined, and yet had a kind smile to flash for the cameras.
I can see her, imagine her now, sitting in the rocking chair and possibly a reading book or doing a crossword puzzle, keeping Corbin company amid the sounds of saws and sanders.
Tears fill my eyes and I blink them away.
“You’re incredibly talented.” My voice is thick, choked with emotion. I continue wandering down an aisle that has different kinds of saws I don’t know the name of, but it’s not important.
Everywhere I look shows Corbin’s passion, his stamp. My heart thunders against my rib cage at the overwhelming sensation of seeing the truth of who he is.
He’s not suits and tuxedos and paparazzi photos. He’s beer and Broncos and building incredible furniture with his own hands.
“What do you think?” Corbin asks, and I jump at his voice.
I’ve been so lost in my thoughts, in the weight of what he’s showing me, allowing me to see and know about him, I didn’t hear him walk closer. Now he’s at my side, his hand drifting over the same tabletop I’m petting like it’s a newborn baby.
“It’s all so beautiful. I can’t believe you make all of this. How did you start?”
It almost makes me sad that he sells it. All of his pieces, displayed in strangers’ homes, perhaps not being taken care of, makes my heart hurt.
He clears his throat and I face him, resting my hip on the table. “Whenever I would come here, I would spend time out here. My grandpa helped build this house for Grandma. He died before I really knew him, but afterward Eleanor would bring me here and as I grew older, it became my hobby.”
His emotion is so thick in his voice, his pride and love for his grandparents creates a beautiful ache in my chest. I change the subject before my own emotion overcomes me.
“I take it business is doing well, then?”
It’d have to be for him to take off so early just to come out here for a few hours.
I glance at him once I’ve blinked back my tears.
He nods slowly, gaze roaming around the vast workroom. “I’m having a hard time keeping up with orders.”
Questions flood my mind. How does he do it? When? Not why…the why is obvious. This is in his blood, somehow, necessary to him.
“How—”
“Caitlin takes all my orders. Handles the social media pages. She usually comes out every month and takes photos of everything new I’ve built or orders I’m working on.”
“But—”
