“Hey, Sam,” Willow said. But she looked at him as if he might bite.
Oh, this would be fun. “I’ll grab a pack, meet you back here.”
She nodded, her smile wavering, but as he stepped away, she got up, jogged after him.
“Hey,” she said, catching up and walking with him to the barn. “I just wanted to say thank you for coming with me. I . . . I tried to talk Sierra into going, but she has a high responsibility gene and feels like Jess needs her more.” She made a wry face. “I told her I’d stay but—”
“You can’t stay. This is your trip.” He stopped, put a hand on her arm. Met her eyes. “It’s okay, Willow. It’s all okay.”
She stilled then, her breath catching. Swallowed. For a second, he thought he saw tears glisten in her eyes.
His frustration softened. “We’re going to have a great day. Fun, sunshine. A beautiful view. What could go wrong, right?”
She grinned, the sun in her eyes turning them a deep blue, rich with hope. It took another layer off his darkness. “Right.”
Jess didn’t want to believe that her house had betrayed her, but frankly, after an hour of trying to figure out where the leak was coming from, she felt pretty sure 303 Sycamore had it out for her.
This was what happened when she tried to prove that she didn’t need help.
Especially from a six foot one, too-charming former smoke jumper.
Jess stood on a folding chair in her grimy basement, fighting with the wrench that would cut off the water, once again. Soggy to her bones, she’d worn her tennis shoes into the murky, primordial sludge in her search for the broken pipe. A dim shop light illuminated the debris, and she could see the lath ripped out as she followed the pipe through the ceiling.
So much for her spectacular installation of her new toilet and sink in the upstairs bathroom. She wanted to kick herself for not checking the pipes to the upstairs before turning on this section of plumbing.
The wrench slipped off the bolt and she lost her balance, fell back, hit an old sheet metal sink. In a flash of heat, the rim sliced across her back.
She let out a cry that echoed through the house. She followed it by flinging the wrench at the pipe. It clanged and the copper shuddered. The wrench skittered off into the recesses of her dungeon.
“Stupid house, stupid pipe, stupid . . .” She didn’t know how to finish, except maybe with life. Because despite her stiff upper lip, she just wanted to sink down into the dirt and fold. More, she longed to call home and hear her father’s voice on the other side.
But that wasn’t going to happen, was it? Not ever.
And she only had herself to blame.
Jess blew out a breath, put a hand on her back. She hoped she hadn’t cut herself—the last thing she could afford was a trip to the ER.
Although tetanus might be more expensive.
She heard footsteps upstairs and she closed her eyes, willing herself to pull it together. Sierra didn’t need her unraveling today—not when she’d given up her perfect day in the park with Sam.
At least she had one loyal friend.
“I’m down here!” she shouted but headed for the stairs.
Please let Sierra have brought donuts.
The door to the basement hung ajar, and light was streaming down the steps when a shadow crossed it.
She looked up.
Pete stood in the doorframe.
Her night of tossing and turning, telling herself that she didn’t care that he’d been out with Tallie, because she most definitely did not have feelings for him, died at the look of worry on his face.
He wore a pair of faded jeans, a gray Mavericks T-shirt under his jean jacket, and worry in his pretty blue eyes. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a cry?”
“I’m fine.” She didn’t mean to snap at him, but yes, she’d most definitely hurt herself. Her back felt like it was turning to fire as she hit the top of the stairs.
Pete stepped back from her, and he looked even better in the light, wearing a layer of golden-red whiskers, his blond hair wavy and loose behind his ears. Worse, he held a bag of donuts from the Avalanche Bakery.
Jerk.
She grabbed the bag and walked past him to the kitchen. Set the bag on the counter. Lifted the back of her shirt. “Am I bleeding?”
Pete didn’t move, so she turned, glanced at him.
He had his hands in his pockets, his expression just a little undone.
“Pete. How bad is it?”
He glanced up at her. “You’ve got a pretty good bruise there.” He moved into action then, opening her freezer and pulling out a bag of peas. She reached out for it, but he shook his head, put his hand on her shoulder, and pressed the vegetables to her back.
She jerked, but he held her steady.