Chapter 8 - The Workshop on Main Street
Four months later, the early spring thaw had washed away the gray Ohio winter.
On the corner of Main Street in historic downtown Milford, the double glass doors of an old brick warehouse stood open to the warm April sunshine.
The air smelled of fresh cedar, white paint, and blooming dogwood blossoms.
Above the entrance, a freshly carved oak sign hung proudly beneath black wrought-iron brackets:
COLE & CARTER — Bespoke Architecture & Custom Furniture.
Inside, the open-concept studio was alive with energy.
One side featured drafting tables covered in fabric swatches, marble samples, and detailed elevation blueprints. The other side opened into a pristine, high-end woodworking shop filled with custom workbenches, vintage cast-iron planers, and stacks of reclaimed walnut and white oak.
Emma stood at the primary drafting desk, wearing paint-splattered overalls over a white t-shirt, her dark hair pinned up with a wooden carpenter's pencil.
She was reviewing a set of drawings for a historic farmhouse renovation in Indian Hill, her brow furrowed in deep, happy concentration.
I walked up behind her, wiping my hands on a shop rag, and wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest.
Emma leaned into me with an easy, contented sigh, resting her hands over my forearms.
"You smell like linseed oil," she murmured, tilting her head back against my shoulder.
"You smell like expensive chalk," I smiled, kissing the warm skin of her neck. "How are the kitchen layouts looking?"
"They're looking like a three-hundred-thousand-dollar contract," she beamed, turning around in my arms to face me, looping her arms around my neck. "The clients approved your walnut island design without a single revision."
"That’s because my lead designer knows how to frame a room," I chuckled, pulling her an inch closer.
Emma looked up at me, her brown eyes sparkling in the afternoon light.
"Do you know what my favorite part of this job is, Ryan?"
"The unlimited access to power tools?"
"No," she whispered, her lips brushing against my jaw. "It’s that when I finish a twelve-hour day, I don't have to wonder who’s going to ask if I had a good day. Because the person who cares is standing right next to me at the workbench."
May you like
I looked down at her, feeling an overwhelming, boundless gratitude for the courage she had shown on that cold November night at the airport.
"You never have to wonder again, Emma," I said softly. "Not for a single day of your life."
