Page 109 of Lana Pecherczyk

The eagerness in his expression broke through her hesitation.

“Sit there, then. Pretend to look at me through a screen.” She gestured to the intact bench. “And don’t laugh.”

“As you wish, m’lady.” He dropped onto the seat with exaggerated attention, leaning forward with elbows on the table, chin in hand. “Talk to me like you would them.”

Blake took a steadying breath, then brightened her expression as naturally as breathing. “G’day, hidden gems! Blake Hartley here with another restoration that’ll blow your socks off.” She mimed holding up a phone to the damaged bench. “Today, we’re tackling this little beauty. She’s rough as guts now, but wait till you see what she looks like when we shine her up.”

“Your expertise sounds kind of hot,” River purred.

“Shh! Followers don’t talk back.”

“What do they do?”

“They comment on posts. Like—” She grabbed the letter, flipped to a blank page, and handed him a tattoo needle with ink. “Write me a message.”

“Got it.” He winked as she continued outlining the fix-it project, using animated gestures to demonstrate the measurements.

“See this pattern in the wood?” She traced the grain with reverent fingers. “That’s how you know she’s got the razz. Underneath all this damage, she’s just begging for someone to notice her potential.”

The words caught in her throat, suddenly too personal.

“Wood.” River nodded, scribbling something that brought a smirk to his lips.

When she hesitated, he shooed her on. “Keep going. Back to your influencing.”

“Focus on the project!” Blake warned.

“Got it.”

“And only appropriate comments. I blocked any rude cunts. River. Are you paying attention?”

“Iamfocused.” He leaned back, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “But you keep talking about wood and cunts.”

“Stop it!” But she was grinning despite herself. “As I was saying, that tells us?—”

He lifted his hand like a schoolboy.

“Yes, River?”

“I have a comment.”

“Oh-kay. Do I want to read it?”

He held up his paper with the words:Your tits look great in my shirt.

The words cut too close to Jeffrey’s criticisms. Her smile faltered. “Me ex said that was the only reason anyone watched.”

River’s playfulness vanished. He stood and crossed to her in one fluid stride, lifting her chin with his fingers. “Your ex was a dickface who couldn’t handle you being smarter than him.” His eyes blazed with conviction as he gestured to the bench. “Keepgoing. Show me how to fix this thing properly. I promise I’ll behave.”

Taking a steadying breath, Blake squared her shoulders and faced her imaginary audience. “Now, the trick with joining these pieces is all in the angle…”

River settled back, but his demeanor changed, transformed as it had during tattooing. Concentration and genuine interest replaced the teasing. His appreciative sounds came when she demonstrated a clever joining technique or explained why certain types of woods split along predictable patterns. With each passing minute, each demonstration, Blake’s voice grew stronger. For the first time since waking in this strange world, she felt anchored to who she’d been—the parts worth keeping, anyway. The parts she didn’t like could stay behind.

With dickface.

The hours melted away as she lost herself in the restoration. With River holding pieces steady, she repaired the bench and reinforced its structure. After stuffing spilled feathers back inside, he traced a finger along the split leather. Blue flame sizzled from his fingertip, fusing the tear with an ornate pattern that transformed the scar into decoration.

“That’s it.” He sat back, admiring their work.