Page 50 of Tragic (Lark Cove 3)

This isn’t a date.

I ran a hand over my beard, staring at the cake sitting on the counter. I glanced at the clock on the microwave and knew Piper would be here any minute.

Once she arrived, I’d get the grill going for the chops. Everything else was coming premade.

Everything except this cake.

A knock came at the door and I took one last look at the cake, hoping I’d made it right. The frosting wasn’t anything like the frosting on Piper’s magic cake. Her

s had been even and smooth. Mine looked too thick on one side and too thin on the other. In one corner, there were cake bits crumbled in.

And I called myself an artist.

Piper knocked again and I left the cake to open the door.

“Nice chairs.” She nodded to the porch chairs I’d set out this afternoon after cleaning my house again.

I shrugged, side-stepping so she could come inside.

But she didn’t move. “Did you make those?”

“Yup.”

“They’re beautiful. I love them.”

Heat crept up my neck and my toes squirmed in my boots. “Come on in.”

She narrowed her eyes and still didn’t move an inch. “Do you not like it when people compliment your work?”

I grunted.

Piper frowned. “That’s not an answer to my question.”

“Are you going to come inside or not?”

“Not.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Fine.” I walked into the kitchen to get out the pork chops, leaving the door open.

She could stand out there all night if she wanted. But what we weren’t going to do was talk about my work.

No, I didn’t like compliments about my work. They made me twitchy. Some designers relished the praise. I just wanted to make the best furniture my hands could craft. Getting paid was a bonus.

Feedback on my work was hard to hear, even the good stuff. I didn’t know why. Maybe because each and every project was something personal.

My furniture was my passion. My art. It came from deep within my soul and flowed through my hands into the tools. Clients may give me guidance or direction, but each piece was mine.

My mother had once told me that my extreme humility was endearing. She’d also told me I was far too critical of my own work. She told me I invented flaws.

She just couldn’t see them. Hardly anyone saw the mistakes but they were there.

Like those Adirondack chairs. One of them was slightly shorter than the other by about half an inch. And on that smaller chair, the middle board of the backrest was slightly darker. It should have gone on the base, not the back.

When someone did point out a flaw, I didn’t just get twitchy. I flew off my rocker.

The one and only time I’d had a customer tell me they didn’t like what I’d built them, I’d told them to fuck off and sent them their deposit back. That piece was the coffee table in my living room.

It didn’t matter if people loved or hated them. That’s not why I built them.