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If Rhett doesn’t let me stay and help him, will Frank Kaminsky even want me back?
I mean, he practically elbow-wrestled me into doing this favor for him by implying what a “good impression” it would make on him if I could come out here and manage this. “This is the kind of on-the-job training you’re going to need heading into the season,” he’d said. Honestly, I hadn’t had a clue what he’d meant, but I’d nodded anyway, not wanting to seem like a dimwit—a painfully ironic tidbit now, considering I’ve never felt more in the dark.
I just can’t figure out why someone like Rhett Jameson wouldn’t want my help.
I mean, the bastard isn’t even using crutches right now. He’s just hobbling around on that leg without any real concern for the damage he might be doing to the unhealed tendons and bones that just underwent surgery a month ago.
It’s like he wants to barrel through his recovery like a fucking race car driver, and I know with certainty, that kind of recklessness won’t have him speeding across the finish line with a black-and-white checkered flag waving him on to victory. If anything, he’ll be lucky if he gets an opportunity to make a pit stop and regroup before his damn race car explodes.
Why can’t he understand that a well-thought-out care plan for his rehabilitation would make a truly substantial difference in getting him back to the kind of physical abilities he must be used to?
And what a bounty of them there must be, I can’t help but think to myself, gripping the steering wheel tighter and picturing the stark lines and shadows created by the cut of his muscles.
I bite into my lip a little and hum. Lord Almighty, the way that man must look when he’s having sex with a woman whose presence he doesn’t resent…
Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can get him to pick up an ax and swing it around before I leave, at least. You know, just to see what those muscles look like when put to use.
Maybe I could even get a quick video to send to Carla and Taylor.
They’d certainly enjoy the show.
Ugh. Stop being a fucking pervert.
I sigh heavily, before glancing back down at the map I’ve been following since my arrival, and then concentrate as hard as I can to ensure I don’t miss the cue to turn—a giant shrub on the left-hand side of the gravel road.
I shake my head. Never, ever would I have believed I’d be where I am right now.
Thankfully recognizing the foliage-style street sign, I turn down the drive for Cabin Three, kicking up a holy mother cloud of dust behind me as I hit the gas.
The Jeep strains under my command, but at this point, if I break down, I can walk the rest of the way, and even a second of extra time spent waiting for the simple reward of solace feels like too much.
I round the final curve at the old girl’s full speed, but when the path I’m expecting to be clear is anything but, with a Volvo station wagon backing its way up the small gravel driveway that leads to my cabin, I slam on the brakes and pray to Jesus this thing stops better than it goes.
I close my eyes and cross my arms over my chest as though that’ll somehow protect me if I have some sort of reversing-backend-into-speeding-frontend-collision and wait for the impact to hit.
When it doesn’t, I open my eyes to complete encapsulation by a cloud of dust.
Holy hell. A rush of adrenaline dumps into my veins, and my heart responds accordingly, kicking into the kind of high gear this damn Jeep is utterly incapable of on inclines.
And all I can do is sit there, staring straight through the windshield like a woman whose life just flashed before her eyes.
Not even ten seconds later, the sounds of a door slamming shut followed by quick footsteps over gravel fill my ears, and it’s not long before the driver of my almost collision comes into view.
“Oh my heavens!” she shouts as she jogs toward me. The instant she reaches the driver’s side door of the Jeep, she yanks the damn thing open with a harsh tug that makes her cowgirl boots slide over the gravel a bit. She rights herself quickly, though, filling the open space in my door, and then her hands are on my face, touching my cheeks tenderly as her eyes search for injuries. “Honey! Are you okay?”
“I-I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I might’ve seen the light for a second—possibly even briefly said hello to Jesus—but I’m fine.” My heart also seems to be doing its best impression of a drumline inside my chest, but now that I’ve seen the way the woman’s eyes have widened at my casual claim of seeing God’s actual son, I don’t expect it’s going to slow down anytime soon.
