“Got it, boss.” Nev clicked on the shirts Ron wanted. “Still a large?” The tag of the shirt Ron was wearing said XL. Nev sat down again, ordered three for each employee. “Your dainties are showing.”
“My what?”
“Is that the style these days? Pants sticking out of shorts?”
“Bugger off. What’s a Dain’y?”
“Daintys? Underdaks? Underpants?”
Ron laughed. “No one says dainties, mate. That’s like two hundred years old.”
“My exact biological age.”
Something rested on top of her head. Nev froze in her desk chair. It took her a minute to figure out that it was Ron’s chin. Nev patted one of the hairy forearms wrapping her in a hug.
“Go on, scram.”
Ron left whistling, taking her fanta with her. Affection was a youthful affectation, a form of benign manipulation indicative of innocence or its opposite. Nev knew better than to be flattered by attention. If anyone caught her holding her cheeks she would be mortified.
It wasn’t that Ron was a flirt—Ron didn’t know she was boundary pushing, checking for moral weakness. If Nev did anything unprofessional, Ron wouldn’t be safe. To feel safe, Ron needed proof that her boss’ self-control was rock solid one hundred percent of the time.
Nev needed to be super-human.
If she admitted she didn’t feel the age difference, friends would misunderstand. That was the oddest thing, feeling no superiority over this one, having to constantly stop herself from asking Ron for advice on how to do things.
Sometimes when the two of them were out fixing fences or baling hay, she forgot her dad was dead, forgot she was the boss now. It was an easy mistake. Ron was easy to look up to.
Nev had to be careful not to let her guard down.
It was safe to want something she couldn’t have. She hoped it wasn’t a Freudian thing, although with her luck this professional relationship would end up having wholesome mother-daughter undertones.
The worst part about feeling young again was catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror and being surprised by the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes and the grey at her temples. So many wasted years... What had she accomplished since she was twenty-two? Nothing.
The problem with thinking too much was that it caused her to do too little. She couldn’t let that happen again.
Someone had to protect Ron.
9
BLAME
The Lionheart Volunteer Fire Station was quiet in the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Nev walked in the unlocked front door and up cement stairs to the office.
Reg looked up from his desk, pushed back his chair and stood, extending his hand automatically. “G’day, Bickerman.”
Nev shook it. “G’day, Madonna.”
“How ya goin’?”
“I’m going to sit,” she said.
The fire chief gestured to the empty chair. “What’s going on?” He crossed his arms.
Nev sat down and rested a boot on her opposite knee before she explained about the frozen corn.
Reg rubbed his face and looked overwhelmed.
“Will you deal with it, or should I?” Nev asked.
