Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk #3) - Samantha Young Page 0,78

moment, there was always this hum of anticipation in the air.

Goddamn him!

Thankfully my hands didn’t shake too much as I unlocked the front door to my shop. I flicked on the lights and locked the door behind Michael as he stepped inside. My wedged boot heels made a dull, soft sound across the blue-painted floorboards but Michael’s footsteps echoed loudly as he wandered around the store. When his footsteps stopped, I turned in the doorway that led to my workshop. He was staring into one of my tall glass display cabinets where my jewelry sat nestled on black velvet trays.

When he leaned toward it to get a better look, my breath hitched. He stared for a while and then lifted his head in awe. “You made these?”

Pride caused a rush of hot blood to my cheeks. I nodded.

Michael’s gaze turned tender. His expression was disarming. “They’re beautiful, Dahlia.”

Emotion thickened my throat, and I whispered my thank-you. Unnerved by his demeanor and my reaction to it, I turned away and disappeared into my workroom.

After switching on the bright overhead lights—necessary as hardly any natural light filtered in through the shallow windows along the top of the far wall—I shrugged out of my coat. I heard Michael approaching and felt him stop in the doorway to the room. Not even a few seconds passed before my gaze involuntarily swung to him. He stood, feet braced, arms casually at his sides as he took in my workspace.

There were two long benches in the middle of the room. One had my latest design sitting neatly on it along with my sketchpad and drawings. The other bench had the materials I needed for the current piece I was making. Along the far end wall were cabinets that held the plethora of tools I’d collected over the years. On the back wall were the safes that held my supply of metals and precious and semiprecious stones.

On the side of the room where I was standing were shelving units filled from top to bottom with stock. There was a door at the back that led to the toilet and a small kitchenette.

Michael wandered over to the bench closest to him and studied my work tools. “What are these?”

Seriously? He wanted to talk about my work?

I glared at him.

He shrugged. “Indulge me. I know nothing about how you do what you do.”

Recognizing that little twinkle in his eyes, I surmised he was procrastinating for a reason. He thought if I took the time to show him my goddamn tools, I’d lose some of my agitation. I crossed the room and walked around the opposite side of the bench.

“Blowtorch,” I snapped as I tapped it.

Michael grinned. “Used for?”

That grin caused a flutter low in my belly. “For the annealing process. I use the torch to soften the metal, so I can manipulate it.”

“And you manipulate it with?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Dahlia.” He gestured to the tools. “I’m genuinely interested. Your jewelry is amazing. I want to know how you do it.”

Squirming at the compliment, I looked down at the tools. Why not indulge him? Draw him into a false sense of security. And then ream his ass for uprooting his life and following me to Hartwell!

Seething, I exhaled slowly, not wanting him to see how greatly he could upset me. I think he knew anyway. Bastard.

I tapped the bezel pusher and the bezel roller. They looked kind of like a doorknob before they were fitted into the door. “These help me push and roll the stones into their setting—bezel, prong, channel, bead, and burnish. Those are the different kind of settings.” I picked up my burnisher, which almost looked like a surgical knife except mine had an enamel handle. “The burnisher. It’s like a peeler of sorts. When you insert the stone, sometimes there’s this gap between it and the metal. The burnisher polishes and peels until there’s no gap.”

I checked to see if Michael was paying attention. He was. His eyes drifted between the tool and my face, and he nodded for me to go on. When our gazes locked, I was so close to him I could see the mahogany in his eyes. From a distance, Michael’s irises appeared almost black. When he was angry, I swear they turned that color. But under the bright lights of my workroom, they were a dark reddish brown. A ring of brown so dark it looked black encircled the mahogany of his inner iris, while little flecks of dark brown