Chapter 8
eight
Georgia
I shove a threadbare dish towel into the narrow gap between the window and the frame over my aunt’s cracked kitchen sink. Outside, huge snowflakes tumble to the ground, smothering what little brown is visible, and gusts of wind keep whipping up miniature storms of snow crystals.
Keeping my fingers crossed, I hold a hand up to the window to check if my amateur handiwork will keep the drafts out until I can get someone over for a proper fix.
Maybe Cash can take care of it? A pleasant rush of nerves washes over me at the thought.
Today is our official start date, and he’s due here in an hour.
Every time I think about it, I have the urge to cancel.
Whenever he’s around, I can’t escape the feeling that my life is about to change in radical ways.
The doorbell sounds, and I briefly despair.
There was no reason to put on makeup or cute clothes for the occasion.
In fact, I wouldn’t allow myself to because I’m not supposed to care what my friend’s brother thinks of my appearance.
Although I at least wanted to pull a brush through my hair and check the mirror before I saw him.
But the young man at my door isn’t Cash.
“Hey. Um. I’m Aaron from Not Just Lawns.” He tilts his head, scratching the side of his cheek. Like most visitors, he was expecting Aunt Julie. “Is Ms. McKenna around?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, she passed away in November.” Will this ever not be awkward? “I’m her niece.”
His eyes widen before he whips his dark-blue beanie off his head in respect.
“So sorry to hear that. I had no idea. We took care of Ms. McKenna’s landscaping and snow removal, and her contract ended in December.
I was coming by to see if she wanted to renew and get the driveway plowed today.
I guess…well, do you know who I should talk to about that? ”
“That’d be me. I own the house now.” I bite my lip and look at the driveway, which has disappeared under a blanket of white. “I’m not sure I want to sign anything since I don’t know how long I’ll own the house. Um…”
“Hey, know what? Don’t even worry about it. I’ve got my plow, you’ve got snow, why don’t you let me give you this on the house, and you can think about the contract.” He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a business card. “Take my card, and you can let me know.”
“Wow, that’s sweet of you.” I glance at his card. “Aaron.”
“My pleasure. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Georgia.”
“Nice to meet you, Georgia.” He extends a gloved hand, and when I shake it, he holds on for an extra second.
“Nice to meet you too. Thanks so much for plowing. I’ll give you a call this week and let you know how to proceed.” I shut the door as soon as he turns away. He’s cute, but I never know what to do with male attention.
“Georgia,” Cash greets me when I find him leaning in the front doorway an hour later.
He looks gorgeous in jeans, a fleece-lined jacket, and a white Shafer Football hoodie that must be his favorite because I recognize it already.
Thank god I had the foresight to pack a small bag of toiletries and clothes to keep at the house—despite only being here a few hours a day—because it means I’m wearing a clean sweater and a spritz of my favorite perfume.
But when he sweeps his green eyes down my body and back up again, I wonder if that magic gaze of his wouldn’t make me feel the same whether I was in an evening gown or pajamas.
“Hi.” Shyness overwhelms me as I suddenly realize what I’ve gotten myself into: hours spent alone in this old house with this irresistible man, trusting him to help me make decisions that are going to determine the next few months of my life. What did I do?
“Ready?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft. The question feels imbued with a dozen more that are too serious to ponder quite yet.
I mean to say “yes,” but my body chooses to swallow the word, so I nod instead.
“Let’s go then, girl.” He gestures for me to step out onto the porch.
“Oh. Aren’t we—I thought we’d stay here and figure out what needs to be done.”
“I know what needs to be done. We have to hit the hardware store for supplies.”
I take in the unplowed street. “What about the storm?”
“That’s why we need to hurry. If we’re going to be snowed in together, better it be in this old house than the hardware store, right?” Playfulness dances in his eyes.
“Is it even safe to be on the roads?”
He steps inside so we’re face-to-face again. “Georgia,” he says in a low, scolding tone, but the playfulness still lingers. “Do you think I would ever put you in danger?”
“You say that like we actually know each other.”
“Don’t we?”
I chuckle. “No.”
“Well, we’re about to.” He steps back to let me pass. “Now come on. I promise to keep you safe as long as you’ll let me.”
Cash is a man of his word. The roads aren’t bad, and he’s calm and careful while he drives across town, not showing off until we reach the empty end of the hardware store’s immense parking lot, where he does a donut that makes me shriek and sends my hand flying for the door handle.
The car comes to a stop, and he turns to me, grinning. “Safe and sound as promised?”
“Let me recover from my heart attack, and I’ll let you know.”
The hardware store greets us with the scents of paint and lumber and a frantic energy. The shelves up front with the snow shovels and salt sit nearly depleted, but small, energetic packs of Shafer students rush through the aisles, having waited until the last minute to prep for the snowstorm.
“Hey, number seven,” says a man wearing a red fleece with the hardware store logo embroidered on the chest.
Cash lifts his chin at him. “Good morning.”
“You’re a frequent shopper here, I see,” I remark as the employee spares me a quick, curious look before turning down the paint aisle.
“Not really.” Cash glances around. “I don’t know that guy.”
Only then does it occur to me the man called him by his jersey number; he knows him as a college football star, not a hardware store customer. Will I ever get used to being friends with a local celebrity?
Cash blows out a breath. “All right, I gotta be honest with you. Those fat snowflakes pouring down outside? We’re in a bigger hurry than I thought.
” With a dramatic flourish, he yanks a small sheet of paper from his jeans pocket, tears it in two, and hands me one half.
I savor the too-brief moment when his fingers touch mine.
“What’s this?” I ask warily.
“Your shopping list, darling. We don’t have time to stroll these aisles hand in hand like I’d hoped, so we’re gonna divide and conquer.” He leans close to me and lowers his voice. “And we’re gonna make it a friendly competition.”
“Wait, what?”
But he’s already backing away. “You heard me. You get what’s on your list, I get what’s on mine, we meet back here when we’re done. Whoever finishes first wins.”
“Wins what?”
“Mmm, if I start thinking about the possibilities, I’ll never get this list finished. Good luck, Georgia.” He winks, stirring something primal in me.
I give a desperate little laugh as I watch him back away. “Cash, I have no idea what this stuff is or where to find it.”
Those strong, sturdy shoulders of his lift in a shrug. “Ask any straight male in this store to help you, and I guarantee you’ll win by a mile, sweetheart. Use what you’ve been given.” With that, he turns and starts running—yes, running—toward the lumber aisle.
I stare after him, helpless and disbelieving.
Is he seriously leaving me? I glance at my list again, tempted to refuse to play his game.
Running up and down the aisles of a hardware store, making a scene?
I’d sooner walk home in the snowstorm and forget I ever agreed to let Cash help me.
Yet as I catch a flash of his sweatshirt darting between rows on the other side of the store, a spur of excitement pokes up inside me.
We’re here, we need supplies, and we need them fast. Might as well make it fun.
With nervous resolve, I scan the signs mounted overhead, stopping as soon as I see the word caulk, then speed walk over there.
I don’t know if I can bring myself to break into a run without my cheeks bursting into flames hot enough to burn this entire building down, but maybe, just maybe, if I get desperate enough.
The idea of winning something from Cash Hartnell is awfully tempting.
It’s easier than I thought to locate the items. Maybe this game was his plan all along, and he purposely gave me the smaller half of the list, but the store has good signage and wide lanes that make it easy to grab what you want and dash away.
Twice, I spy Cash in the neighboring row through the gaps in the shelves, and both times, I find myself giving a hyper little giggle as my heart beats like I’m being chased.
“Don’t try to distract me with your beauty over there,” he says the first time.
“It’ll always work.” The second time he only winks before turning and striding away.
I’m almost done with my list—two items to go—and am crouched along the paint, squinting at primers and trying to decide between the gold and silver labels, when movement flashes behind me.
Without warning, my red plastic shopping basket tips on its side, and three sample cans of paint go rolling down the aisle, a grinning Cash just ahead of them.
I gasp as he cackles. “Never promised not to play dirty,” he calls over his shoulder before sprinting away, his shopping basket nowhere in sight.
Okay, that’s it, I think, unable to stop the smile from spreading over my face. Game on.