I chuckle. “Yep. The ultimate revenge—making her accidentally like me.”
John blinks. “That’s so weird.”
“Mm-hmm.” I glance at the clock. “Your next appointment isn’t here yet. You want me to call them, see if they’re running late?”
As I say it, my phone dings with a text. I glance at it quickly.
[2:06]Trey:Happy to help. Tore my hand open yesterday though, so might not be able to do much until stitches are out.
Stitches? Poor Trey.
Also... crap.
“What is it?” John asks.
“Oh... it’s just Trey, the cooper at the museum. I was hoping he’d help me with this weird exhibit idea I have for the museum, but he’s got stitches in his hand.” I sigh. “I don’t suppose you’re good at carpentry stuff?”
John shrugs. “I’m all right. When do you need help?”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“As long as it’s nothing too crazy.”
I hesitate. I’ll need to approve this with Shelley, but I can dothat on my shift on Saturday. “Could you come by the museum this Sunday?”
“Sure.”
I beam at him. “Thanks. Now hang on, I’ll call Mrs. Manthorne.”
I dial the number we have on file and reach a very sweet, very flustered-sounding woman who is at a hair salon and has obviously completely forgotten about her appointment. I reschedule her and then hang up the phone with an apologetic grimace. John hates when people cancel. Or at least, I think he does. He gets a bit frownier whenever it happens.
“She’s not coming,” I say. “Want me to call the next person and see if they can come early?”
He shrugs. “I guess.” Then, after a tiny beat, “Unless you wanted to do Wordle now.”
I brighten. “Ooh, yes, please.”
He leans against the desk and takes out his phone. “First word?”
I think for a second. “SAVER. As in, you’re a total lifesaver for helping with the museum stuff. You?”
John’s mouth twists thoughtfully. “PIZZA.”
“As in...?”
“As in, you can pay me in pizza.”
I chuckle. “I can do that.”
We fall silent, both of us studying our phones. The S in SAVER is green, and the E is yellow. I think of Jean Shorts Girl and wonder if INSTA is a word.
Nope. Not in word list.
How about... SMOKE. As in, when John’s sitting this closeto me, I can smell that same smoky smell I noticed that time we were in his car. I’ve never noticed it at work before. I wonder if it’s his shampoo. Or maybe it’s some random car fluid that just happens to smell like firewood smoke, like how antifreeze apparently tastes like sugar. (I know that because when I was a kid my mom warned me never to drink it, and for a while I thought that anything that tasted sugary was secretly deadly.)
Either way, it smells really nice, like a bonfire on a crisp autumn night. I take a deep breath in through my nose and then surreptitiously move my gaze over his frame. He’s got his coveralls undone to the waist, revealing a black T-shirt that fits snugly on his shoulders. He’s actually really good-looking, John. His hair is dark and slightly wavy and his arms are all strong and veiny, and if you ignore all the grease stains, he’s got really nice hands. I bet they’re really strong from all his work in the shop.
I’m admiring them absently when he glances up and catches me staring.
