He pulls the leather strap tight against my left wrist. I wince.
“Sorry,” Christian says. “Sorry about that.”
“I’ll loosen it a bit.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.”
“Honestly, it’ll just take a minute.”
“It’s fine, Christian.”
I gaze upon him with my intrepid eyes. My mouth, which is also intrepid, curls into a sly smile. “Did you remember the clamps?” I ask.
“Canadian Tire was closed. But I found a bunch of clothespins in the garage.”
I swoon. My breathing quickens. My heart beats a frantic tattoo as I surrender myself to the anticipation oflanguid erotic pleasures and several hours of splinter removal. Why, oh why have I fallen for someone so Canadian—so okay looking, so gainfully employed, so … nice?
Scott Feschuk, I think I love you.