Page 100 of One Wild Wish

As he sighed, I pictured him kneading the strained muscles. “It’s better. Definitely better. Doctor gave me the all clear.”

“Then my fingers are crossed for you.” And my toes. And arms. And legs.

Unless Owen got involved.

“I have to run,” I said. “But tell Mom I’ll drag Jason over for dinner soon, and I’m wiring money Wednesday.”

A pause. Then, “Not sure what I did to deserve you kids.”

We hung up, but his defeated tone lacerated my heart.

What he hadn’t deserved was to lose two jobs to a crappy economy and injure himself twice. When Graham’s Lumber had closed, and he lost his first forklifting gig, my ballet classes became too expensive. That day, I caught him crying in the kitchen. My father. Crying. Telling my mother he’d failed me. His massive shoulders shook. His gravelly voice cracked. My fourteen-year-old heart shattered.

I vowed then and there I’d move mountains to erase that tortured look from his face. Mountains I’d been lifting for the better part of my life.

I glanced at the clock. Owen had said to arrive at the morning meeting by 8:30 a.m. sharp. 8:29 glowed at me. My first impression might not go as smoothly as I’d hoped. Hurrying, I fitted my cell into my tool belt and straightened the safety glasses around my neck. I secured my respiratory mask over my mouth and put on the face shield, making sure its strap sat above my ponytail.

I was doing this. I was a strong, capable woman who would hold her own on this construction site.

Buoyed by my father’s news and my fresh start, I crossed the street at a clipped pace. Trucks lined the road, the dirt-laden area covered in piles of wood and long pipes. Shovels leaned against a wooden workhorse. A couple of tent canopies offered cover, and wall-skeletons jutted from the ground. These would be the foundations of future homes, forever places for many families. If anything was done improperly, a wall could cave in. Mold could grow in a kid’s room.

The damp air worked its clammy fingers over my skin. My mask scratched at my nose and cheeks. No matter how many words I’d studied, I didn’t have the first clue about construction; my birdhouse in shop class had looked more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Fuchsia hammer fisted in my hand, I forced my feet forward.

The morning sun blinded me a moment. Squinting, I made out a group of volunteers huddled together, orange hardhats on. Once I added one of those puppies to my face shield, mask, and glasses, I’d practically be bulletproof.

Still blinking away the glare, I didn’t notice the stares at first, or realize these prepared volunteers weren’t wearing the safety apparatus I’d been told was essential. It was the first laugh that clued me in. When the sun spots cleared from my eyes, I saw the whispering. The snickering. A few pointing fingers.

Just like that, I was back in high school, showing up at Chucky’s Chicken, the words, “Stupid bitch,” whispered so I could hear.

My mouth dried. No air passed through my mask.

Then I saw him. Owen. The traitor who’d put me in this position.

Last week he was all monosyllabic and moody, a little mysterious and a lot handsome as he’d listed the safety gear I “needed.” If he’d hoped to embarrass me with his antics, he’d be gloating now. But he wasn’t smirking, all pleased with himself. He cringed and hung his head, unable to meet my glare.

Whatever, asshole.

Instead of retreating, I rolled my shoulders back and sashayed toward the group, my adorable tool belt swaying with my hips. A few men went from amused to interested , their mouths dropping open.

I stood on the outskirts of the team. “Sorry I’m late. But you know, safety first.” I knocked my pink hammer against my face shield. “Cap it before you tap it.”

My audience laughed at my self-deprecating joke. All but one man. A man I had no intention of acknowledging.

4

Eight-letter word for roofing material that protects a building from water seepage.

Or when the woman you can’t stop fantasizing about exposes herself in public.

F L A S H I N G

Owen

I’d seen Ainsley twice since the safety-mask debacle two weeks ago. Both times, she showed up in her tight jeans and snug T-shirt and her ridiculous tool belt. (Who knew those things came in pink?) She’d studiously ignored me, and I’d hammered nails within an inch of their lives. If I could retract our first meeting, I would. Redo the whole encounter.

Most of it, at least. Kicking myself repeatedly for the fiasco meant I’d also relived her near fall.