Small-Town Bachelor

What now? She couldn’t force him to take it. And she couldn’t hide it in a piece of cheese the way she did when a pet stubbornly refused a tablet.

Well, she probably could hide it in a piece of cheese, but Reed was an adult. He could make his own decisions and live with the aftermath.

She suppressed a sigh and dug into her potatoes, telling him about Wompers, the enormous dog no one in their clinic had been able to budge from the waiting room this morning. The owner tried to drag the poor beast, but the dog could not be moved.

The dark circles under Reed’s eyes and the tightness around his mouth churned her stomach.

“Just take the stinking pill.” She pointed to it with her fork.

He glared for five seconds but finally popped it in his mouth and took a swig of lemonade. She smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

They finished the meal in silence. When Claire stood to clear their plates, Reed backed the chair up, but it got caught on something. He jammed the wheels forward, then backward, then forward again. His body crackled with tension. “I hate this.”

Claire wanted to go to him, put her arm around his shoulder and comfort him. But it wasn’t her place.

“This stupid chair,” he said. “I can barely get around.”

“I would hate it too. I wish I could make your leg heal with the snap of my fingers.” Claire strode to the living room and opened a cabinet. “Maybe you need something to take your mind off things.”

She selected an early CD by Michael Bublé and slid it into the stereo. Jaunty music filled the air. Returning to the kitchen, she stacked dishes in the sink. Then she paused in the living room—Reed had wheeled to the sliding door and looked out at the lake. He rested his chin on his fist, his gaze faraway.

“As hard as it is for me right now, the view almost makes me forget. Your grandfather knew what he was doing when he made his home here.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The whitewashed walls, tan leather furniture, bookcases filled with paperbacks, old ashtrays and golden retriever knickknacks relaxed her. Reminded her how Granddad always had a hug and a pot of coffee for her. “It’s been a big part of my life.”

Reed’s eyes appeared almost copper in the weakening light, and the expression in them... Apologetic? Or appreciative?

“Claire?” His long lashes lowered. “Will you help me out of this torture chamber so I can sit on the couch?”

“Of course.” A slow ballad came on. She bent for him to put his arm around her shoulder and lifted as he heaved his body upward. The smell of his skin hinted at an ocean breeze. “There. Move to the left. Careful.”

He reclined on the couch, his cheeks ruddy from exertion.

“Better?” She adjusted the yoga blocks under his cast.

“Yeah.” He sounded hoarse. “Come here a minute.”

She moved to his side, her pulse racing. Why did her skin feel prickly all of a sudden?

He took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her hers. “Can you stay awhile?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded like a tiny mouse’s, if tiny mice could speak.

“Good.”

For a split second, she thought he might want to kiss her.

She wanted him to kiss her.

“Tell me what’s going on with the town cleanup.” He let her hand drop.

She blinked. See? He didn’t want to kiss her. Just helping the town. Nothing more.

Claire crossed to the chair, a safe distance from him but close enough they could chat with ease. “Not much. The insurance adjuster hasn’t been out to Uncle Joe’s yet. On Sunday, a bunch of people cleared the street downtown to be drivable, but other than tarps covering a few houses, nothing is happening.”

“We need to change that.” His tone went from smooth to brisk. She liked smooth better. “Do you have a paper and pen? If we’re going to get this town restored, I have questions to be answered.”

“Really?” She scurried to the kitchen for pen and paper. When she returned, she clicked the pen, preparing to write. “What do you want to know?”

“What stores would you say need the most work?”

She thought a moment and listed the ones she could think of. “Let me call Dad. He knows more than I do.” Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she dialed his number. “Dad? Reed and I are making a list of all the stores destroyed—”

“Good idea. I’ll be right there.” He hung up before she could respond.

She shrugged, smiling at Reed. “Dad’s on his way.”

The corner of his mouth twisted. “You mean I don’t get you all to myself?”

All to himself? Claire widened her eyes and shrugged.

Then he grinned. “Your dad’s great. I want to make as many calls as possible before I leave next week.”

And just like that, her spirits dropped to the floor. Next week would be here before she knew it, and playing with temptation had burned her twice before. Not this time.

* * *

Five more minutes. Five minutes and he was sawing the cast off. He’d use a butter knife if he had to.

Reed gripped the arms of the wheelchair. The itch in his leg permeated his thoughts. A thin branch taunted from the limb overhanging the deck. If Reed went outside and snapped the twig, he’d jam it in his cast and scrape his leg until no skin remained.

Fridays were supposed to be good days. Fun days. But after two hours of studying the weekly report he would be in charge of as vice president, he’d almost fallen asleep of boredom. So he’d switched gears, making phone calls to local business owners, construction crews and even two insurance adjusters. Right up his alley. But, with nothing more to do, Reed had thumbed through every magazine in the cottage. Knew all the summer fashions. Skimmed the bookcases and learned about the war of 1812. Memorized the capitals of the fifty states. The television bored him. Inactivity? A cruel, cruel fate.