Chapter 5
THEA
The sound of a horn honking pulls my attention to the right, and I gasp as I see the front of the red pickup only a foot away from my bumper.
I glance in the rearview mirror and realize that I just rolled through the four-way stop.
Damn. My bad.
Did he have the right of way? Likely.
Just because this four-way stop never has four cars stopping at once doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t come to a full and complete stop.
Just because this is my very tiny hometown and the traffic laws seem to be more guidelines than actual binding legal requirements doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be paying attention while I drive to my grandfather’s house for dinner.
I lift my hand in a tiny oops, sorry wave, and the guy in the truck waves back.
I start to proceed. But so does he. We slam on our brakes again.
I realize that it was probably his turn to go, but I’m more or less blocking his way now.
In my defense, I wasn’t looking at my phone screen or something. I was just lost in thought.
Sure, that’s also dangerous. But I wasn’t texting while driving, at least. And I’m definitely not under the influence.
Not under the influence of anything other than annoyance at least. I’m trying to figure out how I can possibly see all of my patients on the day after Christmas, since they have now all asked to be rescheduled from the next two days to December twenty-sixth.
They act as if they just now realized when the dates for Merry Mayhem are.
Or just realized they want to be at Merry Mayhem.
Both of which are ridiculous.
Merry Mayhem has been happening on the twenty-second, twenty-third, and twenty-fourth of December for the past five years. And everyone in town always wants to go.
Should I have realized that these people were making physical therapy appointments with me on the twenty-second and twenty-third and that they would very likely be canceling?
Maybe. But they’re grown adults. Why did they sign up for those timeslots if they knew they would rather be downtown watching the obstacle course or relay race?
Okay, fine, my receptionist, Lana, probably just told them, ‘See you on Wednesday’ rather than pointing out that it was December twenty-second.
Life in Rebel, Louisiana, is kind of a day-to-day thing for a lot of people.
Still, everyone’s been talking about Merry Mayhem for over a month.
My cousin Nora, Director of Parks and Recreation, and creator of Merry Mayhem—and a lot of the other mayhem that happens in town—has been sure that everyone is talking about this annual event.
The truck honks at me again.
I scowl at him. Then realize it’s not him honking. It’s the truck behind me. Because the red truck and I are just sitting in the middle of the intersection at a stalemate
I gesture for him to go. He lifts a hand in acknowledgement and turns right. Then I proceed through the intersection, following him down Main Street.
I don’t recognize his truck, and I get even more curious when he takes another right turn down the next street I need to take.
I follow him for three more blocks, and then my frown deepens as he pulls up at the curb in front of the house I’m headed to.
I pull into the driveway behind my parents’ car and shut off my Jeep.
All the lights are on in my grandfather’s house, and I know that I’m about to walk into a noisy, aromatic, boisterous gathering of my family. And this is just a regular weekday dinner. It’s nothing like Christmas dinner will be in a couple of days.
But I’m not thinking about dinner, or my growling stomach, or the fact that I am fifteen minutes late and will hear about it from my mother and my grandpa Bruce.
They do not understand—never have, even now that my grandpa Harley is in physical therapy himself—that my schedule is dictated more by when my patients decide to show up and how long they need to rehash the latest town gossip—there’s always something new—exchange recipes in the waiting area, and compare notes on their rehab progress before they get to any actual rehab.
They are all scheduled for hour-long time slots, but no one stays in my clinic for less than ninety minutes.
Of course, I can’t charge them for all of that time because most of it isn’t specifically physical therapy.
But, as counterproductive as their chatting is for staying on my own personal schedule, I understand that their visiting and comparing notes about when their staples are coming out, and their range of motion measurements, and how far they walked the dog yesterday, all function as emotional and mental therapy, and that is just as important as the physical aspects I attend to.
“What is he doing?” I mutter as I watch the man from the red truck get out, grab a container off the front seat, then proceed up the front walk toward my grandfather’s front door.
But he stops at the top of the path before the porch steps and turns toward me. As if waiting for me to join him.
I sigh and tuck my keys into the front pocket of my bag and get out. Might as well see what this is about.
“Well, hey, Danger.”
“Danger? That’s a little hyperbolic.”
He just chuckles.
“Are you here to kick my ass for the stop sign situation?” I ask from beside my car.
“Of course not.”
“You want an apology?”
“You gave me the oops, sorry wave,” he says. “Though I did think it also meant go ahead, I’ll wait.”
I roll my eyes. “So, can I help you with something else?”
“I don’t need any help.”
I decide to go ahead and get closer. “So why did you follow me here?” I ask. Then I move so that I can see him more clearly in the shadow of the tree, and I stop. “JD?”
He straightens. “Thea?”
“Uh…hey.”
I know this guy. He was one of the paramedics who showed up when my grandfather had his stroke as we were driving home in June.
He gives me a big grin. “Hey! It’s nice to see you again.”
“Yeah, you too.”
It is. It really is. He’s a very charming, sweet, heroic, good-looking firefighter and paramedic whom I’ve thought about more than a few times since that horrible day back in June.
He’d been calm and competent and had taken care of my grandfather and my daughter, who’d hit her head when the car had come to a jerking stop as Harley had realized something was wrong and had pulled over and slammed on the brakes.
And he had taken care of me. He’d been comforting even while he’d been totally honest about what was going on and what could happen to Harley before they got him to New Orleans.
He’d seemed to know exactly the words and tone to use with each of us.
When to be gentle, when to be firm, when to be funny, and when to just acknowledge our fear.
I’ll admit I’d asked about him afterward.
My cousin Ami’s husband, Michael, had been the other paramedic to show up, and so I’d asked her about him three days later, when I’d found out he’d been up to visit Harley in the hospital.
But she’d told me he was hung up on some woman he’d followed to Louisiana from Nebraska.
I’d let it go.
Sort of.
I hadn’t tried to get his number or run into him.
But I had sent brownies to him at the fire station in Autre.
They had been thank you for saving my grandfather’s life brownies, not it would be okay if you called me brownies.
Who sets up a date with a stroke patient’s granddaughter, right? That would have been weird.
But when I’d found out that he’d been up to visit Harley twice more and had played checkers with Harley and taken him on walks and smuggled in some of Harley’s sister's bread pudding, I developed a little crush despite myself. I mean, I’m thirty-one.
Can I have a crush on someone? Maybe not. I just don’t know what else to call it.
“Why are you following me?” I ask, trying to sound flippant, when, in reality, I’m shocked to see him, yet very pleased.
“Uh, you followed me.” He tips his head. “Are you here to kick my ass?”
I smile at him. “No. And I’m running late, so I wouldn’t have time even if I wanted to.”
“That’s a relief.”
I feel my smile grow. “So, whose house are you looking for?”
Why is he here? If he knows one of Harley and Bruce’s neighbors, I’m going to be so annoyed that I’ve missed all of his other visits.
“Bruce’s,” he says, glancing at the big red front door with the enormous wreath on it. “This is it, right?”
“You’re coming to Harley and Bruce’s house? Why?”
“Dinner.” He frowns and steps forward. “Wait, Harley? This is Harley’s house? As in Harley, your grandfather?”
“Yes. His house and Bruce’s.” I frown and step forward. “You didn’t know that?”
“No. I…” He shakes his head. “I knew Harley’s husband’s name was Bruce, but I didn’t make the connection between this Bruce and that one.”
He’s dressed perfectly for dinner at my grandparents' house. He’s in scuffed, but clean, brown work boots, blue jeans, and a T-shirt under an open light flannel shirt.
His dark brown hair is cut short and slightly mussed on top, and he’s clean-shaven.
He’s probably about six-two or three and trim with broad shoulders and thick biceps.
He looks just as good as he did in that uniform he’d been wearing when I met him in June.
“So, you just met Bruce? Randomly? Separate from Harley?”
“Well, yes. I mean it was—”
“You’re finally here!” my dad exclaims from the open door.
We both turn to look at him.
“And Josh! You made it.”
“Hi,” JD greets with a smile.
“Josh?” I ask.
“My name’s Josh. I only go by JD at work.”
Ah. Okay.
And my dad knows him, too. This is such a weird coincidence.
“Thanks for the invite,” JD—Josh—says, smiling broadly at my dad.
“I see you two met,” my dad says, stepping onto the porch and motioning for us to come inside.
“Yes. Previously.” Josh turns and motions for me to precede him up the steps.
“And how do you know J—Josh?” I ask Dad.
“We met at the hospital when we were visiting your sister,” Dad says, taking the container Josh is carrying and starting for the kitchen.
They met Josh at the hospital?
That’s…random.
But I think I understand what’s going on here.
Josh and I pause in the foyer to kick off our shoes. I brace my hand against the wall and say softly, “I’m really sorry about this,” as I lift a foot to untie my tennis shoe.
“About what?”
“Them talking you into this dinner.”
“They didn’t talk me into it. I was happy to be invited,” he said, setting his boots side by side next to the rows of other shoes.
He must not know what this is. He must think this is about Harley. This is so embarrassing.
I toe off my other tennis shoe and look down.
I’m in leggings and a polo shirt from my PT clinic.
My hair is in a ponytail, and I’m sure the little bit of makeup I put on this morning is worn off by now.
I know I have nothing on my lips, and I definitely didn’t bother with eye makeup.
It’s a physical therapy clinic. People come to me hurt and sick. They don’t care if I’m glammed up.
Besides, everyone I treat has known me all my life.
Or all of theirs. The teenagers who get hurt playing football or basketball come to me for their rehab, just like their grandparents see me after their hip replacements and heart attacks, and their moms come in for my pelvic floor strengthening class.
I don’t need mascara to make these people do ten more reps of their hamstring curls.
But if I’d known my family was setting me up with a guy they met at the hospital while visiting my sister, I might have put on some Chapstick in the car.
And if I’d known it was JD—Josh—from June, I would have done better than Chapstick.
“But did they tell you why they invited you?” I ask Josh.
He straightens and runs a hand through his hair.
I have to tip my head only slightly to meet his gaze, but I’m five-seven, so yeah, he’s probably six-two or so.
“I assumed it was because they wanted me to have dinner with them,” he says with a half-smile.
Oh, confident. Okay, then.
“This is a setup,” I say.
His brows arch. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Between…?” he asks.
“You and me.”
“Huh.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. “Did they tell you that?” I ask. Maybe he wanted to meet me? I feel a little warm swirl in my belly, and that needs to not happen.
Does he know I have a kid? Not just a kid but a pre-teen?
The last time I tried dating was when she was a toddler, and frankly, it sucked. Either men bolted as soon as they knew about the I-come-with-a-kid-thing or they thought we would just do “our thing” on the side, minus the kid.
Ruth is the most important thing in my life, and every relationship I have involves her. I don’t bring people into her life casually.
Which is why I haven’t dated in… God, so freaking long.
“Did your family tell me that this dinner was a set-up between you and me?” Josh asks.
I nod.
“No, they did not.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry. They try this once in a while. Whenever they meet a nice guy that they like, they try to set him up with me or my sister.” I frown. “Though my sister is very rarely single. So, it’s usually me.”
“How do those usually work out?” he asks.
“Not well.”
“Why’s that? Your family actually has terrible taste?”
I smile. “Maybe.”
“Well, then—”
“Mistletoe!”
He’s cut off by Ruth sliding on stocking feet into the foyer and pointing at the arched doorway above us.
“Hey, Ruth,” Josh says. Clearly, he remembers her. That’s nice.
“Hi!” she says enthusiastically. “Grandpa said to come get you.”
“We’re coming,” I tell her, taking a step forward.
“But, mistletoe!” she says again. She points.
I look up. And roll my eyes. I know Harley, put that there and caught Bruce under it, and Bruce groused about silly traditions, but let himself be kissed and secretly liked it.
And I notice no one pulled the mistletoe down.
Because they’re trying to set me up with this good-looking, laid-back firefighter paramedic they picked up at the hospital where my sister is in a coma.
“We’re not doing the mistletoe thing,” I tell her.
“You have to,” she informs me. “Just kiss on the cheek.”
“You have to,” Josh says softly behind me.
I turn. “You don’t really—”
But he leans in and presses his lips to my cheek.
Licks of heat ignite from that spot and tickle down my neck, across my nipples, and make more heat twist through my stomach.
Damn, he smells really good.
Like pine and soap and Christmas cookies.
Okay, that last part is probably coming from my grandpa’s kitchen, but it’s why I close my eyes briefly and breathe deeply.
The only reason.
“And by the way, I’m here because of Violet,” he says gruffly near my ear before straightening.
I blink up at him. “Uh…what?”
“Come on!” Ruth says, spinning and heading for the kitchen.
Josh’s looking at me with a hard-to-define expression. “This isn’t a setup between you and me. I’m your sister’s date.”
And isn’t that just exactly what a woman wants to hear while her nipples are tight and tingly from a simple kiss on the cheek?