Sure, he’d known Kyle carried a torch for Charlotte—a blind bat could’ve seen that. But he hadn’t realized the feelings were mutual. Only a few weeks ago Charlotte had been leaning toward him, those delectable lips just centimeters away.
But it seemed Kyle might be the one getting a good-night kiss tonight.
Gunner pushed the thought away. Since that night in the poolroom, he and Charlotte had maintained an appropriate distance. He’d even congratulated himself on the excellent comeback. Though, yes, he’d had moments when he couldn’t help but notice the sunlight glinting off her hair or stop staring at those tempting freckles dotting her shoulders. But overall, he’d been pleased with his restraint.
Kyle’s truck revved to life, and Gunner pulled back into the shadows of the barn as the vehicle passed. A cloud of smoke bloomed behind the man’s truck as it headed back down the drive.
Charlotte and Kyle.
Gunner pressed his lips together. This was for the best. He couldn’t offer her a future, and she deserved that with someone else. She was the settling down kind of woman. The picket fence and family kind of girl.
He believed that with all his heart. But if that was so, why had his stomach sunk somewhere in the vicinity of his bootheels? And why did the promise of a free Friday evening only make him feel lonely?
Fifteen minutes later Gunner pulled into the driveway he shared with Mr.Dixon. The grass was still long and his landlord had said he would mow today. But it had been hot and maybe he’d decided to put it off.
Gunner spied the riding mower in the side yard. The back half of the property had been mowed. The man had seemingly stopped right in the middle of the task. Maybe the mower had broken down. It was probably nothing, but maybe Gunner should check on the man.
He pulled back to the main house, turned off his bike, and took the porch steps as he removed his helmet. The screen door thumped in the frame as Gunner knocked.
“Mr.Dixon,” he called when the man didn’t answer after two knocks. “It’s Gunner. Everything all right?”
He listened for a response but none came. The man’s rusty old GMC sat in the drive. He had to be around here somewhere. He tried the screen door and found it unlocked.
“Mr.Dixon?” The house was quiet except for the ticking of a clock. No lights were on. He wandered into the living room. A balding head showed over the back of the man’s favorite recliner.
Maybe he was just a sound sleeper. Gunner strode forward. “Mr. Dixon?”
The man groaned.
Gunner knelt beside the chair. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”
Without opening his eyes he pointed a trembling finger at a glass of spilled orange juice on the table beside him.
“You need something to drink?” Gunner grabbed the glass and took it to the kitchen. A half-empty jug of orange juice sat on the counter. It was still cold to the touch, so the man hadn’t been out of commission too long. He poured a glass and returned to the living room, where he helped Mr.Dixon drink the juice.
After a few sips he roused a bit. His eyes fluttered open.
“I think we’d better get you over to the clinic, Mr.Dixon. Where are the keys to your truck?”
He gestured toward the entry table.
Gunner had passed the town clinic a couple of times, but it was a Friday evening and he wasn’t sure what the clinic’s hours were. He withdrew his phone, relieved he had a bit of battery left, and pulled up the number. He frowned when the recording kicked on. But the message gave an emergency number for after-hours calls. Gunner hung up and tapped out the number.
Mr.Dixon tried to lean forward, and Gunner stopped him with a hand on his arm. “You just rest a minute.”
A woman answered the call. “This is Dr.Robinson. How can I help you?”
Robinson? He vaguely remembered hearing some medical talk at the Robinson cookout. “Is this Avery?”
“Yes...”
“This is Gunner Dawson. We met at a cookout at your parents’ house a few weekends ago. I’m with my neighbor, Mr. Dixon. I just came home and found him barely responsive in his living room. Looked like he was mowing and stopped and came inside. I’m not sure what the trouble is. I gave him some orange juice, and he’s coming around a bit.”
“Is he a diabetic?”
“I don’t know—Mr.Dixon, are you a diabetic?”
The man nodded.
