Caleb could only stare at her for a moment, brain lagging somewhere between awe and disbelief. One second she was whispering that she loved him, and the next she was defending the workbench’s dignity like it had witnessed a crime. The whiplash was dizzying—and so perfectly, infuriatingly her that he couldn’t even pretend to be mad.

His eyes followed her hand as it brushed the scarred surface of the wood, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course she’d lay claim to it, like the bench itself was part of their story now—one more thing she’d turned from ordinary into something that mattered.

When she tossed out that dry little line about “for safety reasons,” he lost it. A sound escaped him—half laugh, half groan—and he actually glanced down at the poor, overworked slab of oak, the back of his neck burning.

“For safety reasons,” he echoed, the words dragging rough from his throat. “You’re unbelievable.”

Whatever coherent thought might’ve followed got erased the second she pulled him back down to her. The kiss was slow, deliberate, full of heat and something deeper underneath—the kind of kiss that stopped time instead of stealing it. It tasted like salt, and sawdust, and her. Like everything that had ever been right in his life.

He barely had time to breathe before she hit him with the next line—the so-called legacy plan. Her tone, that glint in her eye, the absolute lack of shame in her voice—it short-circuited his brain. He could actually see it: half-finished tables, chairs, maybe even a headboard or two, all immortalized in some secret story only they’d know.

And then she winked.

That was it. The final nail in his coffin.

A laugh broke out of him, low and wrecked and entirely defeated. He let gravity win, his full weight settling against her as he dropped his head into her hair. It wasn’t exhaustion—it was surrender. Total, absolute surrender.

“You are a menace,” he muttered into her curls, his voice muffled but laced with helpless affection. “A beautiful, relentless menace. You know that?”

He shifted enough to kiss her temple, the motion instinctive. “Fine. We’ll christen the furniture,” he sighed. “But you’re the one explaining it to the kids someday.”

Her answering grin brushed against his cheek, smug and radiant, and he couldn’t help smiling too—because, God help him, she was going to be the death of him. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

God, he was so easy to unravel.

She could see it—right there in the dazed look on his face, the flush creeping up the back of his neck, the way his entire body short-circuited the moment she started running her mouth again. It was delicious. It was perfect. And it was entirely her fault.

Because of course she was going to stake a claim on the workbench.
Of course she was going to twist it from scandalous to sacred in two breaths flat.
Of course she was going to smirk and mean it.

She was Lena Hartley.
She didn't do halfway.

Her hand stayed on the wood, palm flat, possessive as hell. Not possessive in the jealous kind of way—but in the I-will-throw-hands-to-defend-my-honor-and-my-man-and-this-fucking-furniture kind of way.

Caleb's laugh—low, ragged, like it had been ripped from somewhere deep—rewarded her. She didn’t even have to look at him to know she’d won. The poor man was trying to recover from orgasm and her nonsense. A double whammy he never saw coming.

Then he called her a menace.

Her grin was slow and lethal.

“Menace?” she repeated, her voice sweet as honey and sharp as lemon. “That’s cute. Didn’t hear you complaining about my menace when you were growling my name like it was a prayer.”

She ran her fingers lightly through the curls at the nape of his neck, satisfied with the way he leaned into her touch, wrecked and reverent like she was some kind of altar. And maybe she was. His, anyway.

When he kissed her temple and sighed about future explanations, her smirk returned full force.

“Oh, babe,” she purred, turning her face just enough to catch his mouth with hers—soft, this time. Sweet. Like a cherry dropped on top of a sinfully indulgent sundae.

“You’re assuming we’re telling them anything,” she whispered against his lips, voice smug and sinful and smug again. “I plan to let our future kids think you’re just really sentimental about sanding furniture.”

Then she leaned back, stretched like a satisfied cat, and arched one brow like a challenge. “And I’ll cry real tears when they beg us not to name the kitchen table.”

There it was again—that stunned, helpless look on his face. Like he’d walked straight into the trap and was now too in love to crawl out.

She patted his chest affectionately. “But sure,” she added, mock-innocent. “I’ll explain it. I’m great with words.”

Pause. Beat. Smirk.

“You just better build me something sturdy for the bedroom next.”

And then—because she could—she winked again.

Because she was Lena.
And if she was going to ruin his life, it was going to be beautifully, thoroughly, and with the legacy furniture to prove it.

Caleb was done for.

Every word she threw at him hit like a hammer wrapped in honey. That smirk, that voice, that wicked glint in her eyes when she started talking about “legacy furniture” — it short-circuited his entire higher brain function.

He tried, briefly, to form an argument. Something coherent. Something that didn’t sound like the groan threatening to crawl up his throat.

No luck.

“You—” He broke off on a laugh, shaking his head as he looked at her, dazed and still a little breathless. “You are absolutely unreal, Hartley.”

She was still there, fingers in his hair, eyes lit up like she’d just invented mischief and wanted credit for it. Her hand on the workbench, like she was blessing it. Like she was daring him to disagree.

He looked down at the wood, then back at her hand. Then back at her.

“Gotta hand it to you,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “Didn’t think I’d ever see someone turn carpentry into a religion. But here you are — Saint Lena of the Sawdust.”

Her grin widened. He felt it all the way to his ribs.

When she mentioned the kids, though — the “sentimental about sanding” bit — he lost it completely. A laugh punched out of him, real and helpless, and he had to drop his forehead against her shoulder to get through it.

“Oh, that’s cruel,” he said, muffled against her skin. “You’d let them grow up thinking their old man gets misty-eyed over oak grain?”

She didn’t even blink, just kept smiling that smug, beautiful smile.

He lifted his head, eyes catching hers again, something softer creeping in around the edges. The kind of look he only gave her when the world felt too big, and she was the only thing that made sense in it.

“You realize,” he said quietly, thumb tracing a lazy line up her arm, “I’d build you anything you asked for, right?”

Her expression softened for half a second before that wicked brow arched again.

“And yeah,” he added, voice dipping low, teasing to cover the truth underneath. “I’ll make sure it’s sturdy. Reinforced. Earthquake-tested. Because apparently, I’ve got a reputation to protect now.”

Her laugh broke through the quiet — bright and alive — and he felt it in his chest before he heard it.

Caleb leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear as he murmured, “You ruin my life, Lena Hartley, and I’ll keep building you places to do it in.”

Then he pressed his lips to the edge of her jaw — soft, slow, steady — and smiled against her skin.

“Beautiful, relentless menace,” he whispered. “You win.”

And she did. Every damn time.

God, she felt good.

Not just the afterglow—though yeah, her body was still humming from the high of being thoroughly ruined on a slab of oak like she was some sacred offering—but the deeper kind of good. The kind that sank into her bones, warm and wicked and real. The kind that came from being seen, wanted, worshipped by the only man who’d ever been able to meet her exactly where she was and still want more.

And right now? Caleb Maren looked like he wanted to carve a shrine in her name.

She grinned up at him, smug and dizzy on power, her hand still lazily stroking through the curls at the nape of his neck. His breath was warm against her cheek, his voice that rough brand of post-orgasm rasp that made her toes curl.

“Saint Lena of the Sawdust,” she repeated, pleased. “I’ll take it. Better than Our Lady of Unholy Woodwork.”

That earned her a groan—low and full of the kind of helpless affection that made her chest stretch wide with something too sweet to name.

And when he dropped that soft little vow—I’d build you anything you asked for—well, that was the real killer, wasn’t it?

Because for all her teasing, all her shameless swagger, there was a part of her that never quite believed she’d be loved like this. Not just wanted. Not just lusted after. But chosen. Every day. Every ridiculous, paint-stained, hammer-swinging day.

Her smirk softened into something real, her fingers stalling briefly in his hair. “I know,” she said simply, voice lower now. Steadier. “That’s the dangerous part.”

But Lena Hartley didn’t stay soft for long.

Not when he was still buried inside her.

Her hips shifted just slightly, and her grin turned absolutely lethal. “Speaking of dangerous—pretty sure you’re still inside me, Maren. Might wanna do something about that before we both end up permanently affixed to this bench.”

She rolled her hips again, slow and teasing, a smug purr in her voice. “Not that I’m complaining. But you know. For safety reasons.”

His eyes darkened instantly, and she laughed—bright, loose, so full of joy it echoed in the rafters of the shop.

She tapped her fingers against his chest. “C’mon, mountain man. Clean-up crew's on you this time. I did all the heavy lifting.”

He arched a brow, clearly about to argue, but she silenced him with a kiss. Not a wild one. Not a dirty one. Just soft. Certain. The kind that made promises no words ever could.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes sparkled—mischief and love tangled up in one impossible woman.

She let her fingers trail lightly down the center of his chest and added with a smug little smile, “If I’m gonna be the love of your life, I’m damn well gonna enjoy it.”

And she meant every word.