Readjusting my sock after nearly falling twice in under sixty seconds—a personal best—I ambled into the kitchen and hastily shoved the rest of breakfast in my mouth. Rhett followed quickly after and leaned against the doorway with his hands in his pockets. I turned away from him and pounded my chest, trying to cough as quietly as possible as I choked the dry bagel down.
My eyes flew wide and watery as I fanned my face. I probably looked like a lunatic—red faced, heaving, my back to him as if he couldn’t hear the egregious choking noises. First, my dogdecided to practice a new mixed martial arts move on him. Now, he’d have to perform CPR. Or was it the Heimlich?
The bagel finally slid down my food pipe after I had mentally written my obituary:Death by breakfast.
“Would you like any—” My gaze caught on the toppled chair as I cleared my throat, pretending like I wasn’t recovering from a life-or-death experience. “Water? Er… hot chocolate?” I propped it back up as gracefully as I could manage and whirled on my heel.
A flush of embarrassment spread across my cheeks as his eyes dragged from my mismatched fuzzy socks, to my too-long pajama pants, and finally, the same hoodie from yesterday. But why did I care what he thought? He was myhandyman. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Water is fine,” he replied. “I thought we agreed on eight?”
Well, he could always be counted on to cut to the chase.
At the sink, I washed one of the two mugs I used, dried it, and strode to the fridge for filtered water. “Well, yes—” I positioned the door so he couldn’t see how empty it was. “—Bluebell Cove is a little… sleepier compared to what you’re used to, I guess. Call it Bluebell Standard Time.” My laugh died as I straightened in time to see his jaw clench.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly added, slamming the fridge closed and setting his water on the table. “Here, have a seat.”
Rhett peered out the kitchen window for a moment before sitting at the table. “It’s not you. There’s just a lot on my plate right now,” he said.
The guilt ricocheted around my chest like a bullet. I was quickly becoming accustomed to the fresh level of intensity.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated quietly.
He frowned. “You apologize too much.”
I opened my mouth with a response, but was cut off by the piercing squeal of wood as he looked down and wiggled thechair back and forth. My blush returned with a vengeance as he muttered something under his breath, knelt on the floor, and began inspecting the legs. He proceeded to pull out his phone and shine a flashlight on the underside of my furniture.
Rhett looked comically serious as he glanced over his shoulder at me. “Georgie, all of these are broken.”
“Not necessarilybroken. More like… on their last leg.”
His lips twitched. “Was that a pun?”
“Depends. Did you think it was funny?”
Rhett sighed and shook his head in apparent disbelief at my comedic prowess. However, I was too busy mentally patting myself on the back to notice that he had stood and begun to swing the chair over his shoulder.
“I understand if you don’t like puns, but you don’t need to steal my furniture,” I babbled.
He pushed a loose hair from his eyes—I decided that I very much liked when his hair wasn’t gelled in place—and reached for the other chair. “Not stealing,” Rhett grunted as he lifted it over his other shoulder. “Fixing.”
I followed him uselessly to the door, where he turned and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Will you make sure Easton doesn’t get out?”
Words failed me once more as the dog in question nudged my knee. I grabbed his collar and watched as Rhett set down a chair to open the door. “I’m gonna… go change,” I said to his retreating back as he carried my furniture down my porch.
Upstairs, I flung open my closet in record time. My options? A dress I hadn’t worn since prom, two pairs of lumpy sweatpants, and an oversized Spirit Club t-shirt from high school.
Easton plopped onto the bed, head tilted a little too judgmentally for my taste. “Don’t look at me like that,” I hissed,tossing a shirt back into the pile. “You didn’t see how his hair did thatthing.”
It was official. I sounded ridiculous.
Finally, I yanked out my canvas overalls—splattered with an array of pottery glazes, but the closest thing I had to a convincing manual labor outfit. I layered them over a striped tee, pulled my hair into a ponytail—complete with my favorite bandana—and turned to Easton for approval.
He sneezed.
“Perfect,” I muttered flatly.
When Easton and I returned from my bedroom, my kitchen was devoid of any furnishings. Rhett leaned against the opening to the living room, tapping relentlessly on his phone. I cleared my throat. He pocketed it, and I did a tiny spin while lifting my arms wide.
