Nash Brothers Box Set - Carrie Aarons Page 0,280

making for the boys, and then moseys around just taking it all in.

“It’s a true talent that you can do this. Most people have no creativity in their brains. Me included.”

I wave her off. “I’m okay at working with my hands.”

It comes out as more of an innuendo than I meant it to be, and Ryan’s gaze is pinned to my hands.

Quickly, I recover. “People’s brains just work differently. Some would say what you do is an art. I’m hopeless with computers, Forrest keeps trying to get me to set up a Facebook page and it scrambles my mind.”

Ryan’s lips stretch into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Take Lily for example, I’d never have the patience to put up with annoying library patrons all day.”

“I can second that.” I nod.

A ringtone chimes up between us, and Ryan reaches hastily into her pocket. One look at the screen and she silences it.

“So, can I play with a saw?” The expression she wears is downright trouble.

But damn, is she sexy. “I think we’ll start with sandpaper. I didn’t bring you here to have any fingers cut off.”

We focus on one of my chairs, sanding the rough edges.

Her phone begins to ring for the fourth time since we came out here, and her face gets tighter with every call.

“Do you need to get that?” I ask, wondering if it’s her ex.

The way she’s staring at her cell, as if it might jump out and bite her, I’d bet it is. No one gets that look if it isn’t someone who has scorned them or someone they deeply don’t want to talk to.

“No. It’s just my mother.” The way Ryan says this, you’d think it was the grim reaper calling her.

“Are you two … close?” I’m not trying to pry, but it seems like the next logical thing to ask.

She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “No. I grew up in foster care.”

Shock works its way from my chest to my gut. “I … didn’t know that.”

I’m not sure if I should tell her I’m sorry? I’m not really sure what to say, because I’ve never encountered someone who grew up in foster care. For all of its good qualities, Fawn Hill is not exactly worldly. The majority of the residents are made up of heterosexual couples who have two kids and the white picket fence. We don’t have a lot of crime, or outsiders, and for that, I do feel I’ve missed out on a lot of the world. It’s a wholesome place to live, but it doesn’t detail the experience of many people living in our country.

“Yeah. I don’t talk about it much.” Her voice is clipped. “Anyway, what is this?”

Ryan is changing the subject, and we both know it, but I let her. If she doesn’t want to open up about it, I’m not going to force her.

Moving to see what she’s looking at, I find the piece I’m trying to design for Mom.

“It’s a family tree for my mother. I’m trying to make it a little abstract, for a large wall over her couch that she’s kept empty since she moved in.”

“It’s really beautiful,” Ryan says quietly.

I’ve whittled and carved a large oak tree from a beautiful slab of oak. All the branches have a member of our family’s name on it, with wooden leaves carved for the offshoots of their individual families.

“You don’t have anyone on your branch,” she points out.

I shrug. “Never met anyone to carve into it permanently.”

“Why is that?”

I knew this question was coming, but the potential pitfalls of the answer leave me anxious. I haven’t bothered to get close to a woman in five years, so admitting the disgusting ways of my past is something I haven’t had to face. But, if I want Ryan to put stock in our connection, if I want her to feel able to talk to me, I have to talk to her.

“I started drinking from the age of about fourteen and didn’t stop until I was forced to go to rehab by my family. In high school, it wasn’t all the time … until probably senior year. I’d show up drunk to class, to baseball practices, and if I wasn’t at those places, I was loaded. But, as I came to find out, I’m an alcoholic. A highly functioning one. I could have five shots of tequila and talk to you as if I was as sober as a priest. No one thought anything of it, at first;