In minutes, he was done and wiping his face on a towel that he’d pulled off his workbench. I took another gander at his chest…well developed and clearly defined pecs, firm abdomen, pale skin but not pasty with a light dusting of dark hair.
I took a deep breath and looked away, hoping I wouldn’t have to ask him to put on a shirt. It was as if he read my mind. “I apologize for not wearing a shirt. The forge is very hot.”
“Aren’t you worried about getting burned?”
“Not with this kind of work. When doing big pieces, I wear better protective gear, but this was just a little shaping and finishing work.”
“Did you make your armor?”
He shook his head. “I am only a beginner. I make simple pieces. That practice armor and my real battle armor were made especially for me by a master craftsman.” I took a step toward him and he held up a hand. “Don’t come any closer. I have a rule about visitors to my workshop. They are not allowed within fifteen feet of the forge.”
“I’m typically a pretty big rule breaker. Give me a rule and I’ll break it.”
William frowned and then pointed to a sign posted above his workbench. It was hand-lettered perfectly in old-fashioned script with decorative scrollwork all around the edge. It stated that exact rule: Visitors – please stay at least fifteen feet away from fire.
“Don’t break my rules,” he said in a solemn voice.
I studied him for a long moment, not quite sure what I was expecting him to say. Just kidding. Or, Got ya! Either would have worked. But he was serious. Firm. And damned if it didn’t make me want to take a few steps closer to him, just to see what he’d do. But that wouldn’t get us off on the right foot.
“Well, I’ll try to hold myself back, then. For your sake.”
No reply. It was like I hadn’t spoken at all. He was banking the fire, and once that was done, he began meticulously wiping down the tools before putting them in their exact spot. How did I know? Because there were outlines drawn on the wall behind the workbench.
I folded my arms over my chest and sighed loudly. I’d had about enough of William’s workshop and his brusque manners.
As he continued, my eyes wandered back to that sign. I hadn’t seen much of his work, but I knew he was an artist by profession. Mia had told me that he was incredibly talented. I wondered if he’d show me some of his other work if I asked him.
Twenty minutes later, he escorted me out of the workshop and said, “My gym is in the living room. We can work in there.” He turned and locked the metal-lined door with three latches, all padlocked.
Without waiting for my reply, he spun on his heel to lead the way. Who had a gym in their living room? Apparently, a guy who lived alone and didn’t do a lot of entertaining. More power to him.
William walked into the house and led me into a large living room, which looked fairly normal with a couch, game table and chairs. It was, however, conspicuously missing a television of any kind. Maybe he watched TV in the bedroom?
Along the wall in the gym area was a set of weights, a treadmill, a rowing machine and rolled-up mats. He bent and grabbed his previously discarded T-shirt and slipped it over his head. I was simultaneously dismayed and relieved, the former because he covered up the nice view, and the latter because I didn’t have to studiously avoid getting lost in the manchest.
My reaction to his looks was a little over the top tonight. Was I having some kind of weird hormone rush, maybe? It wasn’t like I’d been going through a dry spell, when I likely would get turned on by anything and everything.
It’s just that I’d never really thought of William this way before. Tall and handsome, yes. That was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes. But maybe his epic reserve had previously discouraged me from viewing him as an object of lust.
I cleared my throat, attempting to clear my mind of sexy thoughts. “So…have you ever done any meditation exercises, or do you know of any calming techniques?”
William walked over to the wall, unfolded a big mat and laid it across the floor. He sank down on one end, sitting cross-legged without saying a word. I sat down facing him.
“No,” he finally answered.
“Okay… So you want to tell me what happened at the duel?”
“Weren’t you there?”
“I was. But I wasn’t in your shoes.”
He frowned. “I wasn’t wearing shoes. I was wearing my armored boots.”
Was he joking? William had never struck me as stupid—quite the opposite, actually. Maybe he was teasing in his usual deadpan way that made me think he was serious. “Well, I mean, walk me through it…”
“Walk you through what?”
I blew out a breath, my frustration level rising. “Are you bullshitting me with this?”
His dark brows pushed together. “You’re aggravated. I probably should explain that I have issues with language. NTs are always using figures of speech instead of just speaking plainly.”
“NTs? Is that like ETs?”
“No. ET means extra-terrestrial. NT means neurotypical.”
“Neuro-what-ical?”
“It means that your brain behaves typically. Mine doesn’t. English is not my first language.”
I smiled, happy to find something I could relate to. “It’s not mine, either. My first language is Bosnian-Croatian-Serbian. What’s yours?”
“Pictures. Images. Other types of sensory input. But not words. Words came later.” He shrugged, his eyes drifting down to the mat just below my knee.
“Huh…that’s interesting. That’s something you never really think about…the way you process thoughts inside of your brain.”
“It’s something I have to think about. All the time.”
“I think in English when I’m speaking English and in Bosnian when I’m speaking Bosnian. But I don’t have to worry about it. I guess that’s the big advantage NTs have without really knowing they have that advantage.”
He appeared to be concentrating on that spot on the ground while he listened to me. “When you think in the same language you are speaking, you don’t have to translate. But everything comes to me in pictures first. So, for example, when you said filling my shoes, my first reaction was to see you wearing my shoes.” He shook his head, shifting his gaze to my feet. “My shoes wouldn’t fit you. It’s a very funny image.”