Chapter 8
Every trimmer, rake, and shovel he pulled from the truck gleamed in the sunlight. The metal was so shiny I had to squint.
“I feel bad. My yard’s going to ruin your tools,” I said, shielding my eyes as the hedge trimmer tossed a glittering flash of light across my face.
He waved a hand like I was worried over nothing. “Don’t worry about it; they won’t get ruined. This is what they’re made to do.”
Before I could argue, he was already attacking the shrubbery with practiced ease that definitely indicated he’d done this before.
I picked a rake because anything with a motor felt like a weapon I couldn’t be trusted with.
“So are you ever going to tell me how you know Spanish?” I asked, heading for a pile of leaves next to the stairs.
“I was born in Spain and then moved to the US when I was three years old. I grew up in a bilingual household. My father is originally from Spain, and my mother is a California native,” he said, clipping away.
Sweat had roughed up his hair in a way that somehow made him look less designer/doctor and more rugged/lumberjack.
There was still a little grease on his knuckles from the fridge job, and I felt a twinge of guilt at all the manual labor he was doing.
“Did your parents meet in college or something?” My brain started spinning stories about how two people could have met from very different places.
“My mom was studying abroad in Spain when my parents met.” He paused his clipping and glanced at me with a teasing smile. “What about your parents? Are they from around here?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it. I really didn’t want to talk about my parents.
“As much as I would just love to tell you about my parents, I think that’s a conversation that would be better saved for another time.”
“Maybe our third collision? When you run into me on your morning jog?” It was impressive how quickly he veered the conversation after I shut him down.
“More like a walk. I don’t really do running.” Smooth, Hope. Way to admit you’re about as athletic as a houseplant.
“No?” His eyebrow perked up, another amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“I’m not really the physical exercise type.” I gestured to the rakes we were holding and gave him a look of disdain.
“Hmm… well, that’s where we are opposite, then, because I love it.”
I blinked at him. “You enjoy this?”
“The fresh air, the exercise, the smell of the trees—absolutely.” His tone suggested it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I crouched and started raking out the sticks and leaves wedged beneath my porch. “I like all those things. Minus the exercise part.”
“Oh yeah? And what would you rather be doing out here in the fresh air?”
“Reading,” I said instantly.
He chuckled. “That does sound relaxing. But can’t running be relaxing too?”
I froze mid-rake. A very unladylike snort burst out of me before I could stop it. “Running to relax? That’s an oxymoron.”
“It’s possible, trust me. You just have to get into it.”
“I’d rather sit on my porch and watch you do it instead.” The words slipped out before I could catch them, and the moment they left my mouth, I wanted to reel them back in. Ugh, that was so not how I meant for it to sound.
He laughed again, and holy molar, I liked the sound of it way too much.
“I’m determined to prove to you that the outdoors and a bit of exercise can be just as enjoyable as reading.”
“Good luck with that. My best friend’s been trying for years. No progress.”
He tilted his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, maybe I’m a little more persuasive than your best friend. Trust me—I can be very convincing.”
The way he said “very convincing” made something in my stomach flip. I had no witty comeback, so I ducked my head, focusing very intently on my rake. Yard work was safe. Flirting, on the other hand, I wasn’t so sure.
We slipped into an easy rhythm after that, and I wanted to ask him more questions about his job and the lady who talked to him about knitting club at the store.
But the questions faded into the background as yard work became all-consuming.
We trimmed back the wisteria that had basically swallowed the porch, raked leaves into haphazard piles, and dug out the dead branches and shrubs from the flower beds along the front walk.
Jay even steadied the ladder so I could scoop handfuls of leaves and pine needles from the gutters without falling to my death.
The sun was starting to get lower in the sky, and I was about to call it a day when I decided to check the north side of the cabin. That was when I noticed one of the window sills had a broken plank, barely hanging on by a single nail.
“Hey, Jay? You wouldn’t happen to have a hammer, would you?”
He stepped around the corner, took one look at the problem, and nodded. “Yeah, and I have some nails too. Hold on.”
A moment later, he returned, and I accepted the hammer and nail. He then proceeded to hold the crooked piece of wood in place.
“Give it one good swing, and it should catch,” Jay said.
I lined it up carefully, determined not to make a fool of myself. I swung and hit the nail dead on. I was proud of myself for a mere millisecond.
And then the nail didn’t budge…
Instead, the hammer ricocheted like a boomerang and smacked me square in the mouth.
“OW!” I yelped, dropping the hammer and clutching my mouth.
Jay’s head whipped toward me, his expression turning quickly to one of horror. “Hope. Are you okay?”
I groaned as sharp pain shot through my front teeth, and the taste of blood swept across my tongue. I reached up in agony, touching the spot where the stupid hammer had just struck me.
“Ugh, no. I hit my tooth.”
Jay’s hands fell on my shoulders, and he carefully guided me to the porch steps. As I sat down, I let out another groan. Tears stung my eyes, coming to the surface in a mix of pain and sheer humiliation. Of course, I couldn’t just hammer a nail like a normal person.
“Let me see,” Jay demanded gently, crouching in front of me.
“It’s probably broken,” I cried, beginning to panic as I pictured myself with a giant gap where my front tooth should be. It was every dental professional's worst nightmare.
“Hope, look at me.” His hands cupped my face, steady and warm. I obeyed and lifted my chin so he could inspect my face more closely. I watched him through blurry, tear-filled eyes as he assessed the damage.
“Nothing’s chipped,” he said finally, “but we should get the front two X-rayed, just in case.”
“I need a paper towel,” I muttered, tasting blood on my tongue.
“I’ll grab some.” He disappeared inside and reappeared with half the roll.
Ripping off a handful, I pressed the wad to my mouth and winced. The slight wiggle in my number eight tooth nearly sent me spiraling again.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I was not going to panic until I got it X-rayed.
“Where’s the closest dental clinic?” I mumbled into the paper towels.
“Just a few minutes from here. I’ll drive.” He held out a hand to help me up.
“I can go by myself. I don’t need you to—”
Jay shook his head, not at all convinced. “You keep the towel pressed to your tooth, and I’ll drive. Let’s not see if your special talent for hitting things extends to the car.”
I shot him a glare, which probably lost some edge given the bloodstained paper towel plastered to my face. But I didn’t argue when he opened the passenger-side door for me.
I slid into the leather seat and fumbled with the seat belt. As I struggled to click it into place, I had the epiphany that when we got to the clinic, I’d have to pay for the visit. I muffled a string of curses into the paper towel just as the driver-side door opened and Jay got behind the wheel.
I didn’t have any money for a dental checkup, let alone an emergency one. And what if I actually needed treatment? I was so screwed.
Jay started the truck and eased onto the main road. I leaned back against the seat, clutching the paper towel to my mouth. My tooth still throbbed, and I concentrated on not sobbing in front of him.
“I’m swowwy,” I mumbled, muffled by the paper towel.
Jay gave me a small, wry smile. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t quite translate that one. Try again?”
I peeled the towel away with a wince. “I’m sorry. This is not exactly how I wanted this to go. I promise I’m not usually this pathetic.”
He quickly shook his head. “Pathetic? Not at all. It could’ve happened to anyone, Hope.”
I grimaced. Why did I think he was only saying that to make me feel better?
A few minutes later, Jay pulled into town and parked in front of Summit Dental, a sleek little clinic perched on the edge of the lake. The rest of the lot was empty, and that was when I realized it was five o’clock. Most dental clinics would be closed at this hour.
“Crap,” I muttered, the paper towel still clutched to my mouth. “There is no way this clinic is still open.”
Before I could even protest, Jay hopped out of the truck and strode up the steps. He swung the door open, and I blinked. The lights were on, and the doors unlocked. The place looked ready for business.
Relief flooded through me. “You’re kidding.” I removed the towel from my mouth so he would hear me. “They’re actually open?”
Jay shot me a grin over his shoulder. “Looks like it. Don’t ask me how I know.”
I hurried out of the truck to follow after him.
As I stepped into the foyer, warm dark wood greeted me, along with a giant stone fireplace.
The waiting room couches were brown leather, adorned with dark-hued pillows and mahogany rugs that I honestly could sleep on.
They looked so comfy. I briefly wondered if we’d somehow wandered into an adorable lodge instead of a dental clinic.
Then the sharp scent of medical-grade antiseptic hit my nostrils, and I knew we had to be in the right place.
No one was in the waiting room, and the receptionist was nowhere in sight. My relief that they were open began to wane slightly.