Hometown Healing. Jennifer Slattery
a straw hat and—boots? Who wore boots with shorts? Didn’t matter... He looked amazing in them.
She shook her head. She wasn’t a stupid teenager anymore, and she would not go all goo-goo eyed for this man. She’d had enough heartbreak in the past couple of years to last the rest of her life.
She waited for him to notice her.
He did on his way back. Releasing the lever, he let the mower die, then removed his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead with a bandana he fished out of his pocket. “Howdy.”
“Hey.” She shifted and brushed grass flecks from her face. “I...um... I don’t want to sound rude or anything, but...what are you doing here?”
“Mowing your mom’s yard.”
“Why?”
“I do it every Saturday. On account of her being ill and all.”
So he thought Mom was sick. Like sick-sick. And there was no way she could correct him without embarrassing her. Or herself. “That’s very thoughtful, Jed, but I can take care of this.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes started to itch and water, probably due to the grass dust that had bombarded them. She swiped the ends of her fingers under her bottom lashes. Oh. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Feeling her face heating, she cast a glance at her pajamas—froggy boxers with a mismatched, baggy T-shirt decorated with a big old coffee stain. And her hair...
She touched her curly—and no doubt frizzy—locks and winced.
Too late to hide under a rock now. Straightening, she raised her chin and forced a confident smile. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it’s really not necessary. I’ll manage my mother’s yard work from now on.” Or at least for as long as she stayed in Sage Creek.
“You got a mower?”
“What? Of course.” She glanced toward the garage, which was closed and likely jam-packed with Mom’s clutter.
She left Ava well occupied by her mother and returned less than ten minutes later. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and with her hair tamed by curl cream, she pushed a rusted mower with cobwebs clinging to it. The thing had to be at least twenty years old, and probably hadn’t been used in twice that time. She pressed the little gas button thingamabob numerous times, widened her stance, grabbed the lever and cranked.
Nothing. Not even a putter.
She tried several more times, jerking faster and faster, until her hands felt slick and sore. Same outcome. She studied the contraption. Then cast a nervous glance Jed’s way, grateful to find him focused on mowing his grandmother’s yard.
She turned back to the hunk of metal that was causing every last drop of her patience to evaporate. Stupid thing was probably broken. Now what?
The steady hum drifting from Jed’s direction stopped, and she stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, then gritting her teeth, gave the lawn mower’s lever another hearty yank.
Nada.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Jed approach with his cedar-citrus scent preceding him.
“Need a hand?”
She smoothed rogue strands of hair from her eyes and faced him with what she hoped to be a casual smile. “I appreciate your concern, but...” What? She had this handled? Obviously not.
His crooked grin sent a jolt through her. “As stubborn as ever, I see.”
She crossed her arms. “As cocky as ever, I see.”
He laughed, and his chocolate-brown eyes danced. “Let me take a look.”
She stepped aside to give him access to the contraption, and then she waited while he gave the mower a thorough once-over.
After a few minutes, he straightened and dusted off his hands. “Out of gas.”
Great. But at least it wasn’t broken. “Thanks. Guess I better fill it, then.” Did Mom even have one of those portable gas cans? She stepped toward the house to grab her keys, knowing full well he’d likely mow Mom’s lawn while she was gone.
* * *
Shaking his head, Jed watched Paige pull her car out of the driveway and exit the neighborhood. That girl was as bullheaded as...as a...as a bull. But a whole lot cuter. Especially when annoyed. Not that he intended to provoke her, except maybe by tackling her mother’s lawn before she returned.
Now, there was a challenge.
Then, once she’d calmed down a bit—she never had been good at accepting help—he’d mention the script-writing job. Or send her to Grandma’s. No. As tempting as it was to pass the buck, he wasn’t going to chicken out on this one.
Why was he so nervous to talk to her? He’d never been this way before...except during that summer when he’d first realized he’d fallen in love. Man, he had been a wreck, stumbling over his words and blurting out stupid, nonsensical statements. When he’d finally mustered up the nerve to ask her out, he’d botched it so badly, she’d laughed.
In the most adorable, shy way.
Then she said the word that practically made his heart spring from his chest—yes.
Moving quickly, he pushed her rusted lawn mower aside, then started up his. He’d made it three-quarters of the way through with sweat trickling into his eyes and down his back by the time she returned. But rather than quit, he stepped things up, as if daring her to stop him.
He made a sharp turn at her fence and almost laughed out loud. This was more fun than calf wrangling. He cast Paige a glance as he maneuvered around the thick, protruding roots of her mama’s oak tree, feeling amused to find her standing in her driveway. Watching him. A red gas can sat at her feet. It looked brand-new.
Once finished, he lifted his hat and mopped his face with his bandana.
Fighting a victorious grin, he sauntered over to her. “I normally weed eat every other Saturday. I’ll take care of that next time.”
“It’s really not necessary.” The sun lit her peach complexion and highlighted the most endearing splatter of freckles on her nose and forehead. “And thank you.”
“My pleasure.” He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “So, how long are you staying?”
“At my mom’s, you mean?”
He nodded.
Her gaze dropped. “Awhile.”
Tight-lipped, just like she’d been at the house. Everything about her, from the hard glint in her eye to her stiff stance, said “back off.” But he couldn’t do that. Not yet.
“Listen. About your job...” Probably not the best intro. “You remember my grandparents’ theater?”
She nodded, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.
“We’re partners now, Grandma and I, and we’d like to hire you on. As a writer. If you’re interested.” He told her about his renovation plans and his difficulties finding a workable script. “Can’t pay you a whole lot, unfortunately...”
“I appreciate the offer, but...” She lifted her chin. “I’m a journalist. What makes you think I could write a mystery?”
“You won that short-story contest in junior high.” She’d written a modern-day Peter Pan meets Cinderella love story.
“That was a long time ago.”
“Thought maybe you could give it a whirl. If it doesn’t work out, no harm done.” Except then they’d be out of time and without a script.
“I don’t think—”
He raised a hand. “You don’t have to answer now. Just chew on it.”