Free Pretty Hurts by Shyla Colt

Edgar’s side. He hadn’t exaggerated his cooking skills. The man threw down in the kitchen. One bite of his enchiladas and I was in heaven. The Verde sauce that came from an old family recipe rivaled what I’d eaten at restaurants. After helping do dishes, we migrated to the living room to watch television.
    His arm around my shoulders is nice. I toy with his fingers as the movie winds to a close. His hands, like the man himself, are a contradiction of hard and soft. The callouses on his fingers come from cutting hair and woodworking.
    “Edgar?”
    “Mm-hmm?”
    “Can I see your shop?” I ask curiously.
    “Sure. It’s in the back. I converted a shed. It has electricity and enough space for me to pursue my interests. It’s nothing fancy.”
    “That’s okay,” I say with a shake of my head.
    Standing, he offers me his hand, and I take it. The invisible sparks fly as the air between us crackles with possibilities. He drops my hand, and I feel the loss intensely. His jaw ticks and his nostrils flare; his dark brown eyes darken to nearly black.
    Waves of desire crash against me, and I lick my lips.
    He’s been the perfect gentleman so far, which I appreciate. Only, I’m daydreaming about watching him come undone. He places his warm hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the house to the back door. His heat sears my flesh. My breasts swell, and my nipples tighten as desire builds inside of me. There’s no relief to be found when we step into the muggy night air.
    We walk to the tan structure. After unlocking the lock, he lifts the door and flips the light on. I drink in the space. My eyes dart from left to right, trying to take everything in. The shelves are filled with miniature sculptures. Drawn to it, I walk toward the left side of the structure which has been set up for whittling and woodwork. I run my fingers over tiny horses. The smooth finish and exact detail speak to his talent.
    “These are amazing.”
    “Thank you.”
    I continue my exploration. The right side of the shed looks like a mad scientist’s laboratory with its hoses, containers, and funnels. I spot brown beer bottles and what look like tin mini-kegs.
    “This is your brewing station I’m guessing?” I run my hands over the copper tubing, imagining him with safety goggles and a white lab coat. Smart and creative is a sexy combo.
    “It is.”
    “How long does it take to make a beer?”
    “Depends on the type you’re making. It can be anywhere from two weeks plus. Well, adding an additional two weeks for bottle conditioning.’
    “Bottle what now?” I ask.
    The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Bottle conditioning. At its most basic, it’s allowing the beer to naturally carbonate.”
    “How does that work?”
    “By letting the yeast eat the sugar which causes fermentation. During this process, the C02 will bubble up and escape, leaving you with your end product of beer.”
    “I’d like to see that some time.”
    “We’ll brew one together.”
    His easy agreement makes me smile. “How long have you been doing this?”
    “About four years. I got a brew kit for Christmas, and I was hooked. Are you a beer drinker?”
    I wrinkle my nose. “I like beer as much as the next person, but I’m more of a classic cocktails kind of woman. Give me a decent liquor with a splash of this and a splash of that, and I’m happy. Think Mint Juleps and Bee’s Knees. I tend to play bartender at parties.”
    Turning, I spot an unfinished piece of wood on the work table in the center of the room. I walk over and trace the smooth angles, wondering what it will one day be.
    “That’s going to be for you,” he says.
    “Me?” I peer at him, surprised.
    “I get the wood, and the pieces speak to me. The minute I got the Butternut sample in, I knew it was for you. Smooth, soft, and a beautiful brown that has malleable properties but a coarse grain which makes it strong,” Edgar says. He runs the tip of his finger over the wood