Tiny setback. But it’s fine. I can do this. Prove to Raja that they hired the right person for the job. And prove to this town and my parents—and especially Brad—that I can take care of myself. All while resisting the yummy but tempting Coach Rathborn.
6
BRAD
Tuesday, January 6th
We tourthe first home we’re renovating on Tuesday afternoon. Charlie looks confident and professional in jeans and a nice button-down shirt. Construction work can be messy, so hopefully his shirt doesn’t get ruined. His long blond hair is tied back with a few tendrils breaking free. As he introduces his team, he winds the strands around his finger, pulling them close to his face.
Charlie twisting his hair is something he’s always done when he’s nervous. And now there’s more of it to twist.
I imagine the silky strands sliding through my fingers as I twist—nope. Charlie is off-limits. I need to remember that.
As we follow Charlie through the rundown house, he goes over the time, materials, and volunteers needed for each room, making notes on his tablet. I’m riveted by his charm and confidence. He might not know much about actual home renovations, but he knows how to manage a team.
Charlie’s squeak breaks me out of my thoughts, and I get a glimpse of a mouse scurrying out of sight. He laughs. “Watch outfor the rodents—” Then he presses his lips together. He’s trying so hard not to ramble. It’s cute.
A voice behind me mutters, “Pansy ass.”
Charlie stiffens slightly. And I want to turn around and deck Pete. I recognized his weaselly voice. He was a bully in high school, and growing up didn’t help him much. Just made him more of an asshole. A homophobic asshole.
He’s also an idiot. Charlie could easily get him thrown off the project. But will he? They need volunteers. Even assholes with loud mouths who tend to drink too much.
I resist the urge to say or do anything. Charlie can take care of himself. I repeat the words over and over as we move back to the entranceway.
“Okay, I think that’s everything down here. Let’s move upstairs.” His eyes stop on me for a second, and I forget how to breathe. He smiles and waves his hand in a let’s-go motion.
I’m close to the front of the group. And no, it isn’t so I can watch Charlie walk up those stairs. But I’m not looking away either, so I see the moment it all goes to hell. Charlie steps on a soft spot on the stairs, and his foot goes through the step.
“Shit,” Charlie says with a squeak. I rush up the stairs to reach him, being careful where I step.
Grabbing his arm, I hold him steady and say in a low voice, “I’ve got you.”
He laughs nervously as he pulls his foot out. “This is not embarrassing at all.” The stairs are narrow, and he has to lean on me to keep from falling. In a louder voice, he addresses the group. “That’s enough for today. We’ll have the stairs checked and go from there.”
As the group breaks up, I lean closer to Charlie. “Are you okay?” My voice is low. I’m doing my best not to undermine Charlie, but it’s more difficult than I expected.
“I’m fine, thanks.” He pulls away and carefully navigates the stairs. When we get outside, he walks over to one of the men on his team. He’s limping and his face is tight with pain.
Only a few volunteers are left, some talking and one person on their phone. Pete is gone, and my body relaxes. But I continue to hang back until it’s just Charlie and me.
He lets out a frustrated sound. “We talked about this, Brad.”
“We did,” I agree. “But you’re bleeding.” I point to his right leg. The hem of his jeans is stained and blood is dripping into his shoe. “And I can help with that.”
“I don’t—” He presses his lips together and blows out a breath. “Okay, fine.”
Why does that small victory taste so sweet? “Come on.” I resist the urge to take his arm as I lead the way to my truck. That might be too much help for him to handle. Opening the door, I wave for him to get in.
“But I’m bleeding.”
I shrug. “Try not to get it on the seat.”
I hop into the driver’s side and turn on the truck. It’s a little chilly out. He shifts in the seat and pulls up his jeans. His leg is scraped, but not bad enough that he needs stitches. I lean over to reach the glove box, and he jerks away.
“What are you doing?” He sounds breathless.
“Getting the first-aid kit.”
