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* * *
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Finn calls out behind me about an hour later.
I had gone rooting around in the garage and found some small garden tools—tools I could use with one hand. A trowel, a handheld fork, and a rake. Okay, the rake isn’t exactly a small garden tool, but by tucking it under my armpit, I can still use it with only one hand. I am currently raking the leaves on the lawn.
Turning back to face Finn, I lift my injured arm in the air. “I’m not using my wrist. I’m still resting it,” I defend myself.
Finn smirks and shakes his head. “Are all English women this stubborn?”
Feeling a little playful, I lift the rake in the air like a sword. “We are mighty, strong, and brave warriors,” I cry, like I’m about to run into battle.
Finn bursts into laughter at my antics. “You see,” he chuckles. “You don’t even need the drugs.”
Apparently, my antics yesterday entertained Finn while we waited in the clinic. I have to admit, I was more than a little embarrassed when he relayed to me my terrible impression of a chisel. When I asked him why I was doing an impression of a chisel, he halted for a second, and then shook his head. “Honestly, I can’t remember.”
“Do you have a problem just sitting still?” Finn says, crossing the garden. “Anyone else would happily put their feet up and enjoy the excuse to rest. Not you, Emma Bolton. You need to always be doing something.”
He stops once he’s beside me, then looks down at the terribly untidy pile of leaves I have attempted to gather. “If I don’t help you, it’s going to make me look bad, isn’t it?” he says, smirking at me.
“I was bored,” I reply. “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”
He turns and looks me dead in the eye. “But I do want to,” he says.
He’s not smirking anymore, and for a long moment, we both just look at each other. It’s like we’re frozen in time, only both of us are capable of moving. But neither of us chooses to do so.
Finn slowly moves his hand and takes hold of the rake. His hand wraps over the top of mine as he does so, and a spark travels down my arm and through my body. His hand placement was no accident. I know he’s done it on purpose.
“If this strong, brave Englishwoman will let me help her,” he says, with such intensity in his tone that my stomach clenches. “Then it would make me happy to do it.”
At this point, I have no words, so I just nod. Finn smiles back, slides his hand down the shaft of the rake, and takes it from my grip. “So. Leaves,” he says, turning toward the garden and leaving me standing there, feeling breathless.
* * *
The following day, I keep myself busy in the morning, then go and see Sylvie at the shop. She has to work late tonight, but she has a quiet hour this afternoon, so I spend that time with her. After saying my farewells, I begin the walk back to the Brecken’s house.
I’m slowly meandering down Main Street when I hear the rumbling sound of a powerful engine driving slowly beside me. Turning, I admire the huge black muscle car that I assume is slowing down to park. But then the car draws forward a little, and I see Nick bending to look at me from the driver’s seat.
“Hey. Do you need a ride?” he calls through the open passenger window.
I will admit I’m more than a little surprised. I’ve only met the man twice, but even then, he did not strike me as a guy who would drive this kind of car. I can’t explain why. It just doesn’t fit the person I spent an hour with in the coffee shop that day.
I lean over to reply, “I’m fine. But thank you, anyway.”
“Are you heading home?”
“Yes. It’s not that far.” I nod down the street like I can see the house.
Nick lifts his eyebrows. “Yeah, but I can get you there quicker. Besides”—he grins—“your Englishness has the tendency to bring on flash floods and heavy downpours.”
I laugh a little then. Glancing up at the sky, it does look a little dull, but I can’t imagine that happening to me again.
“Come on,” he cajoles, waving at me. “I’ll be leaving town soon, and I might not get to see you until the next time I visit.”
With those words, I finally relent. Mainly because I do not want to hurt his feelings by telling him that such an occurrence would not cause me any despair. The coffee was nice and everything, but I’ve hardly thought about him since. There has been someone on my mind, but it is definitely not Nick Fenton.
After I buckle my seatbelt, Nick looks at me with a concerned frown. “What happened?” he asks, pointing to the sling.
“I had an argument with a bee. I lost,” I quipped back.
