Great Restorations - 3. Chapter 3

A RAY of sunlight burst through the gray clouds, sliced through the window of Marc‘s office, and fell across his hand. Startled from his reverie, he watched the beam creep across the desk, glowing bright for a moment and warming his skin before it faded, extinguished by the stubborn clouds.

He‘d been daydreaming again, a frivolous habit that had been plaguing him for a couple of weeks. Even Aunt May had noticed, which meant his distraction must‘ve reached epic proportions. She‘d delighted in his embarrassment but admonished him to be careful. He had a business to run, she said, and couldn‘t afford to look witless. Then she‘d tugged on one of his pale locks and cackled, shaking like a fat hen. Marc had forced a confused smile onto his face and laughed along.

He swiveled back to his computer and closed down the program he‘d been working on, then stood and stretched, arms high above his head. He was still standing there, fingers wiggling near the ceiling when a car pulled into the parking lot below. A small frown tugged at his face, and he relaxed, arms sinking back to his sides as he watched the blue SUV swing into a parking place. He hadn‘t been expecting any clients this morning.

He turned, swiping his hands down the front of his jeans as he did. Not exactly the best outfit for drumming up new business: faded jeans, a thread or two away from ripping out across his left thigh, and a dark flannel shirt he‘d owned for more years than he could count.

Still, he was the best there was for hire, at least around these parts, and restoration was hardly white-collar work. If it was a potential customer, they‘d either know that already or come to understand it quickly. Muttering under his breath, Marc made for the steep stairs that led to the main floor of his building, already calculating the spoils of a new contract. Luckily, habit had him ducking to avoid the wooden strut that arched out over the small landing, because as soon as he saw who was wandering around on the first floor, he stumbled.

“Shit,” he whispered and eased back into the shadow of his office door. His pulse jumped, and Marc chastised himself, not that his heart paid any attention. After the brief shock, it settled into a fast, excited rhythm that had him cursing under his breath again.

On the floor below, Sawyer paced, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans, ogling the looming water wheel, the smooth, polished drive shaft, and the gigantic millstone that remained nestled in the center of the mill. Even fifteen feet above, Marc heard his low whistle of appreciation. He closed his eyes for a moment before taking a deep breath and stepping back into the light.

“Amazing, isn‘t it?” he asked as he began walking down the steps.

Watching Sawyer spin around fast enough to lose his balance might‘ve made him laugh if he hadn‘t been so focused on sounding casual. He ambled down the steps, a polite smile frozen on his face, and damning Sawyer a thousand times for staring back at him so openly.

Sawyer rocked back on his heels, eyes dancing. “Marc.”

Marc‘s smile slipped for a moment before he recaptured it. There was honest pleasure in Sawyer‘s tone, and a healthy amount of surprise, which meant, as Marc should have known, that Sawyer hadn‘t been seeking him out on purpose.

Of course he hadn‘t been. But it still stung.

“It‘s good to see you,” Marc said, honesty making the statement easy and difficult all at once. “Just passing through?”

“Well… no.” Sawyer lifted a finger to his mouth and tapped it against his lips. “I was actually looking for the owner of Great Restorations.”

“Ah.” Now that threw him for a loop. Buying himself some time, Marc stepped off the landing and circled around behind the gear wheel to where Sawyer was standing. “That would be me, actually.”

A grin broke across Sawyer‘s face. “You? No shit?” He mumbled something under his breath before thrusting his hand toward Marc. “It‘s a small world.”

“It‘s a big world,” Marc rejoined. “But it‘s a small town.” He took Sawyer‘s hand and shook it. “So how can I help you?”

“I‘m in need of your professional services.” Sawyer kept his hand firmly in Marc‘s, leaving it to the other man to pull back, which Marc finally did. “I want to restore my grandfather‘s house.”

“Really?” Marc tried to keep the excitement from his voice, but Sawyer grinned, catching it anyway.

“Yeah, really.”

Plans and figures raced through Marc‘s head. Possibilities. Probabilities. The promise of returning something to its former glory. “It‘s a gorgeous place.” He shut his mouth with a click before he starting spouting off why, which would no doubt bore Sawyer to tears.

But Sawyer cocked his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. Some of his dark hair spilled over his eyes, and he pushed it back as he answered. “I thought so too. I mean, I don‘t know much about it, but it just feels… solid. Underneath all those layers of paint and wallpaper, that is.”

“And cheap partitioned walls and ancient carpeting and—” Marc cut himself off, embarrassed.

Sawyer nodded. “Yes. I knew you‘d understand.” He squeezed Marc‘s arm before wandering a short distance away, shuffling his feet over the old oak planks. “This place is stunning. I remember visiting here when I was a kid. My grandfather took my brother and me here to fish, right above the spillway.” Shooting Marc an unreadable glance, he ran a finger along the edge of the millstone. “Is it just something to wow the customers, or is it all real?”

Marc raised an eyebrow, then ducked his head to hide a smile. “Real? Yes. But it hasn‘t been a functioning roller mill in over a hundred years.” He watched Sawyer wander over to the window, where a dozen stained-glass panels were displayed, and the sun, stubborn as ever, chose that moment to break through the cloud cover. It streamed through the tall windows of the mill and made the stained-glass panels come to life in a riot of color and shapes.

Sawyer inhaled sharply. He turned in a slow circle. “I can almost hear the water rushing through here,” he said. His eyes darted to the huge water wheel, now sleeping permanently against the far wall, and Marc followed his gaze. When he looked back, Sawyer‘s eyes were closed. “I can smell the water,” Sawyer said, voice low.

Throat dry, Marc swallowed hard before answering. “I know.”

Sawyer walked back along the far wall, disappearing from Marc‘s sight for a moment as he passed behind the massive drive shaft and crank. As soon as he did, Marc reached for the wood railing nearby and tried to make his knees stop shaking.

Most people reacted to the mill in one of two ways. Some turned their noses up at the dark, dank, strange atmosphere, then insisted that business—if indeed, any was to occur at all—be conducted in Marc‘s office, which at least was well lit and didn‘t feel like it was two hundred years old.

Others became so engrossed in the perfectly preserved trappings of the mill that they missed the several displays arranged throughout. Each had been designed with great care, and although the stained glass was the most dramatic, it was far from the only example of Marc‘s craftsmanship and skill. Strangely, hardly anybody understood how it all tied together.

And nobody had ever connected with the place like he had. Until now.

“Marc? Are you all right?”

Marc jerked upright. Sawyer had circled the entire room and was now standing behind him. “Fine,” Marc said. “See anything you like?”

Sawyer stepped up next to him and leaned against the same railing. “It‘s amazing. The stained glass… wow! But the woodwork against the back wall is beautiful too. Did you restore that?”

Marc blinked. “Yes. You noticed that?”

“Of course.” Sawyer‘s brows knotted together. “Was I not meant to?”

“No, I mean—never mind. Yes, it‘s all restored. That‘s solid cherry, original to an 1840s farmhouse at the north end of town. When I got it, it had, as far as I can tell, at least ten layers of paint caked on it.”

“And you made it look like it does now?” Sawyer smiled. He scratched his chin, shifting closer in the process. His pale blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Yeah.” Marc shifted, too, edging an inch closer himself, caught up in Sawyer‘s presence. “I mean,” he said with a cough, “I have a group of really talented people who help me. I couldn‘t keep up with everything myself.”

“No,” Sawyer said. “I don‘t imagine you could.”

He met Marc‘s inch and raised him two more, his hip sliding along the railing, and Marc‘s breath stuttered as a strong wave of déjà vu washed over him. It felt like that first night a few weeks ago on Sawyer‘s back patio, before reality had caught up with him. “I suppose your services are in high demand,” Sawyer continued, practically purring.

“Well, I—” He cut off when Sawyer closed the last of the distance between them and pressed a knee between his. As if it belonged to someone else, Marc‘s hand lifted from his side, then slid up under Sawyer‘s jacket and across his hip. His fingers teased at the hem of Sawyer‘s T-shirt.

Sawyer made a humming sound. Two fingers rubbed a path up the center of Marc‘s chest, then traced a trail across his throat to his cheek.

Marc‘s mind raced. Confused and angry, he tore his gaze away from Sawyer‘s impish smile. “I thought you didn‘t want this,” he rasped.

Five seconds ticked by while his unanswered question hung in the air, then Sawyer sighed and moved away. “I‘m sorry. You‘re right. I just thought….” He shrugged.

“You thought what?” Marc didn‘t wait for an answer. He spun away and walked to the nearest window, staring out over the river that rushed past the mill. What did Sawyer think? That after all these years, a few weeks would really make a difference in how he lived his life? “You thought you‘d come torture me,” he said petulantly.

A hand landed on his shoulder. “Is that what I do, Marc? Torture you?”

Marc sighed, but didn‘t answer. His breath left a fog on the heavy pane.

“I don‘t want that.” Sawyer‘s voice barely carried across the short distance between them.

“Don‘t you?” Marc turned, shaking off the hand and finding Sawyer right behind him, as he‘d suspected. What he hadn‘t expected was the hurt and anger slashed across his face.

“Fine. Maybe I do.” Sawyer put his hands on his hips. “Because it‘s been damn hard to get you out of my head, and maybe I wanted to let you know that.” He blew out a breath and stared up at the ceiling for a minute before meeting Marc‘s eyes again. “But what I really wanted to do is remind you that I‘m here, and that I can help you. If you let me.”

“I don‘t need your help.”

Sawyer worked his jaw back and forth. “Fine.” But his voice was strained, and his hands were balled into fists. With one last shake of his head, he thrust them into his pockets and backed up two steps. “So?”

It took Marc several seconds to work up the ability to speak, but finally his throat obeyed and opened. “So?” he echoed.

“Can you take it on? The house?”

“You still want me to?” He winced at the shock and disbelief in his voice. Not exactly professional.

“Of course. You‘re the best. I promise I‘ll stay out of your way. But I‘d still like to hire your company to handle the restoration, unless you have any objections.”

He had a boatload of objections. None of them would hold water if people started asking him why he turned the project down, though. And he had to admit, the thought of getting his hands on Sawyer‘s grandfather‘s house was a powerful incentive. “Okay," he said, nodding. “I‘ll need to, uh, take a thorough look at the property to give you a half-decent quote. And I‘ll need you there when I do.” He nearly bit his tongue after the last sentence left his lips, horrible lie that it was.

Talk about weak. Despite every ounce of good sense he owned, he was already maneuvering to see Sawyer again as soon as possible.

Sawyer‘s answering stare was unnerving. “All right,” he said in a neutral voice. “Just tell me when.”

Right now? Marc clamped down on the words before they left his lips. He refused to act like an eager puppy, concerned with nothing but getting an itch scratched. No, he was an adult. He‘d damn well act like one. “How about early next week? Monday morning?”

“No sooner?” Sawyer frowned, and Marc caved like a house of cards.

“I can probably do sooner. Can I call you?”

Sawyer‘s easy grin returned to full power. “Anytime.” He rattled off his cell number, which Marc punched into his phone with clumsy fingers, then pumped Marc‘s hand a few times and turned to go. “I‘ll wait to hear from you.”

Marc watched him go, then took the stairs to his office two at a time so he could watch Sawyer climb into his SUV and drive off. He sank into his desk chair, barely hearing the protesting squeak it gave when he did, and opened his scheduling ledger. He bit his lip as he browsed over the appointments for the next couple of days. Booked solid.

He stared out the window while he thought, watching the sun wage its battle with the clouds, recalling how warm Sawyer had felt under his hands. Then he snatched his pen off the desk, scratched out the next day‘s early morning appointment, and penciled Sawyer‘s name next to it.