Chapter 7 #2
Parker leans against the barn door, plaid-covered arms folded.
It’s a mirror image of the other day when he scared me two-thirds to death.
(Yes, I was more than halfway there. No, I’m not being dramatic.
That one hand on my shoulder took years off my life.) His bedhead is flattened under a dark baseball hat that makes his ears poke out, ever so slightly, and he looks like …
he’s dressed in the same clothes as yesterday.
He ignores my question, telling me once more to follow him.
I decide to give him a taste of his own medicine. Giving him my best impression of his stony look, I grab the bucket handle and try not to wince as I lift it.
“Would you just come with me, already?” He huffs.
“No thanks. I’m good,” I answer with a satisfied smirk as I step around him. Granted, it would be more convincing if I didn’t choose this moment to hiss in pain and hinge forward, setting the bucket down again.
“You’re not winning any Oscars. Leave the bucket and let’s go.”
The heels of his boots echo slightly off the floor in the otherwise silent building as I grudgingly trail after him. “Don’t you have anything better to do than check up on me?”
He disappears into the office at the front of the building.
The large barn door beside it is pushed open, sunlight pouring in, the gentle fall breeze drifting through to break the stillness.
Loose bits of hay and dust scatter along the concrete floor.
When he doesn’t emerge or answer, I follow him into the small office.
“Did you hear what I said?” I ask.
“No.”
He doesn’t ask me to repeat myself or even bother looking up.
“I said, don’t you have anything better to do than spy on me?”
“I’ve gone from checking to spying? That escalated fast.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought you weren’t listening?”
He ignores the question again and I give up, watching as he rifles through the drawers of a desk overlooking the driveway from a large, dust-covered window, nearly obscured by the mess of file boxes stacked beneath it.
The wall beside the door is lined with low shelves, holding rows of scuffed and dirty rental helmets and equipment from when Tabitha offered trail riding once upon a time.
“I get paid to make sure things get done around here. Technically, I’d say that gives me the green light to check in once in a while. Sit.” He gestures to the desk.
The metal chair is pushed aside. I’d have to reach past him to get it, so I perch on the edge of the desk instead.
“Hands,” he says gruffly.
I rest them on my lap, palms up. Without hesitation, he touches the fingers of my left hand, straightening them.
He winces when he sees the blisters, and I feel myself soften at this show of concern.
But then he’s shaking his head like this is all a big inconvenience, and my annoyance comes back in an instant.
“You wouldn’t have to check in if you didn’t keep pulling me away from my chores,” I say.
He shushes me and pops the lid off a small tube of something with his left hand. “I had to pull you away,” he replies, eyes focused on his task. “It was obvious you weren’t going to stop.”
“Of course not. All the waters still need to be changed.”
“Not a chance. You’re not doing anything with hands that look like that.”
My hand jerks back at a sharp pain, followed by cool, sweet relief. Whatever balm he’s dabbing onto my blisters feels like heaven. It’s distraction enough for it to take a few extra seconds for his words to sink in. “Wait, what? No. No way! You don’t get to walk in here and decide—”
“Don’t worry about it. I can finish the rest for today.”
“I told Tabitha I’m staying,” I blurt. I swallow when his eyes meet mine.
Up close, I notice for the first time a green starburst in the brown of his irises and study the way his nose turns up slightly at the end.
“I mean, I asked … she said I could. I just thought you’d want to know that I’m going to be here for a while. Sorry.”
He clears his throat, looking away. “Why are you apologizing? Is this your way of telling me I’m fired?”
I roll my eyes. “For the last time, I won’t get you fired. Besides, you’re annoyingly good at your job.”
It’s true. I’ve been watching Parker closely all week, and not only did he redo my work, but he also never cut a single corner. Lyla will get a kick out of me telling her I received first aid from the hot resident farmhand.
Whoa. Hot? Where did that come from?
I chalk the slip up to my defensive mind in overactive imagination mode.
The better to serve up witty comebacks with.
Rationally, I know he’s good-looking. He has a normal-sized head, proportioned features, and no strange horns or other growths protruding from his forehead.
But he also strikes me as the kind of guy who must know precisely how good-looking he is, and I don’t doubt that at some point in his life, he’s used that to his advantage. Points deducted.
Wait, no! I am not keeping score.
We’ve both fallen quiet. I could pick up the argument again, but don’t, choosing to watch as he plasters my hands with carefully crisscrossed band-aids.
“You’re not usually here this early,” I point out, fascinated by his movements. “And you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday.” I look up, shocked. “Wait—are you doing a walk of shame?!”
He laughs, and I can hardly believe I’m the one who made that sound come out of him.
“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “My dad lives in town. I went over there last night and ended up staying. He … needs a lot of help sometimes.”
Lyla’s voice is in the back of my mind. Maybe you need to talk to him, too.
I chew my lip, remembering how he clammed up when Tabitha asked about his dad at dinner. I don’t want to pry, but maybe he’s bringing it up because he wants to discuss it.
“Is he … sick?” I ask as gently as I can.
His eyes go distant, and he disappears for a few beats into his head before he answers. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. He’s just never been very good at … taking care of himself.”
“What about your mom?” I venture.
This earns me a quick shake of his head. “She’s long gone.” Whatever his feelings towards her, they’re much less complicated than his relationship with his dad. He switches to my other hand; eyes focused on his task.
From the sounds of it, it’s just him and his dad, who doesn’t seem like he can work. No wonder Parker was so worried about losing his job.
“You don’t have to pity me,” he grumbles.
“I wasn’t.”
He scoffs. “I know what people think of me when they hear the story. Guy from a broken home on the wrong side of the tracks. You’re doing an inventory of all the valuables in the house right now, aren’t you?”
“Actually, no. I was thinking it sounds like your dad is lucky that you’re the one taking care of him. Even if your first aid skills could use a little work. I look like a papier maché squid.”
My attempt at lightening the mood works. His mouth quirks up in a tiny concession, and I notice the hint of a dimple in his right cheek.
“You make it work,” he says softly, his voice a low rumble in his chest.
He chooses that moment to look up at me from under his thick, dark lashes. A strange energy crackles between us, sending a tingle darting up my spine. His eyes drop and catch on my lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a hard swallow.
He pushes back and stands, clearing away the first aid kit with swift, steady movements. “You’re done for the day.”
Before I can even open my mouth to thank him, he’s out the door. I stand stock still as I listen to his retreating footsteps down the barn, wondering what the hell just happened. I don’t like it, but I may have to accept that Parker might not be as bad as I thought.