She doesn’t say anything as she takes the box and turns it over, so my words keep on coming. “I always put a little piece of gauze along the wound, then seal it on with the patch. Never had a problem. Dawson’s used them for years to cover new tattoos when he’s doing cold-plunges or hot soaks for recovery.”
I stop there, because anything more would be rambling, and I’m not a rambler.
But Eliza’s silence is starting to make me question if I’ve just crossed a line. If I was wrong in telling myself this is a no-big-deal act of decency.
Yesterday’s ride-along didn’t raise any of these doubts. I’d wanted to do it, but even if I hadn’t, I would have eventuallyneededto for her work.
This little favor can’t hide behind the same excuse.
But Eliza doesn’t call it out. “Your duck went into your bathroom, opened a cabinet, and grabbed these for me?”
My lips wobble. “Yes.”
“You have an indoor duck?”
“He sleeps inside so he doesn’t get eaten by anything, but he’s got free reign of the farm and my yard during the day.”
Her head slowly shakes. “How did you evengeta pet duck? Who does that?”
“I didn’tgethim.” Consciously deciding to purchase a pet duck would be strange. “I found him on the farm a few years ago as a duckling with a broken leg. I nursed him back to health, and he’s never left my side since.”
I’m not an idiot who thinks he can domesticate any wild animal that stumbles into his yard. I tried multiple times to set Dave free, but he kept on coming back, and when winter came, I didn’t have the heart to stick him outside in single-digit temperatures. I’m not a duck murderer. So now I’m a duck…landlord?
Anson thinks the little guy sees me as his mother.
“Well,” Eliza says, soft smile playing on her lips, “I don’t think Dave has the hands needed to open a bathroom cabinet. So thankyou.”
I dip my chin in acknowledgement and close the door. She’s quiet as she falls into step beside me, and I find myselfspeaking again.
“Not sure if you heard, but Joy dropped off some of her cinnamon rolls this morning,” I tell her. “The team’s probably digging in right now. We should grab some before they’re gone.”
That pulls her attention from the box, lips parting like I just told her Martha Stewart’s our own personal chef today. Again, she makes me wonder if I’m doing too much.
Nothing I wouldn’t do for anyone else on the team.
Joy’s cinnamon rolls are so damn good, they can send a sinner to heaven. Plus, from what I can tell, Eliza always eats by herself in the main office. Maybe that’s her preference, or maybe it’s a circumstance I forced her into.
“What would your team think if this mean out-of-towner came and stole their cinnamon rolls?”
“Not stealing if you have permission.”
“Permission,” she repeats derisively. “See, having yourpermissionactually makes those cinnamon rolls less enticing.”
My head wobbles in a slow shake. “No way you’re a rule-breaker, Boston.”
Her head’s on straighter than a ruler. I’m no rebel like Dawson, but I was known to toe the line growing up. Trespassing into the old power plant two towns over, sneaking into the middle school gym at night to make out with a crush, ignoring homework and using a polite smile to get away with it. Fun, harmless adolescent stuff.
“I’m not a rule-breaker,” she admits easily, then points at me with the box. “But you don’t make my rules, Grayson. Your big brother does.” She halts, stopping me in my tracks. With the coyness of a Cheshire cat, she finishes, “And he said nothing about taking the rest of the cinnamon rolls from you.”
One second, she’s standing beside me. The next, she’sall billowing skirts and maniacal laughter as she races toward the warehouse.
For a second, I let her go, watching in disbelief because there’s no way she just pulled a Lala on me. Then my ass kicks into gear, and I race after her.
The owner of this farm, racing across his parking lot like a kid at recess who wants his stolen cookie back. Except I’m not running to beat her to the pastries in that warehouse. Cinnamon buns aren’t on my mind at all. Just this woman, who I’m hearing laugh with pure joy for the first time ever, and who is running way faster than she should be able to in those cute sandals.
Eliza might be a little speed demon, but my legs are longer than hers. Twenty feet from the warehouse, I catch up with her.
“Hope you weren’t looking forward to those,” she pants.
