I remembered that conversation very clearly. Months ago he’d told me I was doing too many things, and that was before I’d started deliberately trying to put myself in an early grave by being busy every minute of every day. He thought people in my town took advantage of my desire to help.
“I . . . I can’t.”
“Why?” he demanded.
“I just can’t.” Partly because I had chosen this path to keep him off of my mind, but also because I honestly couldn’t explain why, when someone asked me for help, I never said no.
In fact, the only person I ever managed to say no to was Rafe. I was about to tell him as much, but I decided against provoking him when I saw that Aunt Sylvia had moved into the living room and was now watching us from the front window. We were like her own personal reality show. I let out another deep sigh. We needed his money. He had apparently charmed her into liking him and giving him a lease. I just had to wait him out. I could be polite and distant until he went away.
“I worry about you taking on too much,” he said in such a gentle way that my heart nearly broke all over again. He reached up to push an escaping tendril of hair away from my face. I felt the tips of his fingers burning up my skin and had to move my head away.
“You don’t get to worry about me anymore,” I said, my seconds-old resolve to stay nice forgotten.
He looked thoughtful. I glared at him while a smile played at the ends of his lips. “Let me drive you into town. I know where the diner is. What time will your shift be over? I can pick you up.”
Logically, I understood that he was being nice. That this was a courteous and chivalrous gesture, and that if any other person on the planet had made it, I would have accepted. But it was Rafe. The still tender and overly emotional part of me did not want to be trapped in a car alone with him.
“No, thank you. I’ll call Whitney for a ride.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to pick me up on her way in, and given my truck’s desire to make my life as difficult as possible, most likely not the last time either. I scooted across the seat and let myself out on the passenger side to keep some distance between us. I headed back to the farmhouse.
“Whitney. Your best friend, Whitney?” he asked behind me.
I wished he didn’t remember everything and that he wasn’t so smug about knowing so much about me.
“You don’t need to call her. I can drive you. It’s no problem.”
“I don’t want your help. I don’t need it. And I don’t need you.” I didn’t know why I’d felt the need to tack on the last sentence or for whose benefit it had been. I let myself in the front door and slammed it behind me with a satisfying sound. Thankfully, Aunt Sylvia had made herself scarce. I was in no mood for an interrogation. I called Whitney, and she didn’t hear anything in my voice that made her concerned or ask questions. She said she’d be by soon. I was going to get my shower after all.
I picked up my overnight bag from where I had dropped it earlier. Straightening up, I saw Rafe through the window. He had opened the hood and was fiddling around inside Old Bess’s engine. Weird emotions flared up inside me. I did not need this stress.
What I needed was for him to leave.
But how was I going to make him go away?
Chapter 2
Whitney honked at me, but I was still brushing my hair. Where only minutes earlier I had felt beyond exhausted, I now looked suspiciously sparkly. My cheeks were bright pink, my hair behaving, my skin clear. Like my whole body was saying, “Yay! Rafe is back!”
Glaring at my reflection, I threw my hair into a ponytail and headed downstairs. I called out my goodbye to Aunt Sylvia. She shouted back that she’d see me at the town meeting later on.
When I got outside, I stopped short when I saw my very married and very pregnant best friend flirting with Rafe. Not to mention that my shepherd collie, Laddie (short for Sir Galahad), was sitting at Rafe’s feet, looking up at him adoringly. I couldn’t be too upset about it, though, because Laddie loved everyone. If we ever got robbed, that dog would take the thieves on a personally guided tour of the house.
Whitney, on the other hand, was a different story. She knew better. I walked up to hear her ask how he knew so much about cars. “I’ve always loved mechanical things,” he said. “The mechanic at our boarding school spent a lot of time teaching me about cars. I almost never get to use that knowledge.”
“Such a shame,” she cooed.
I cleared my throat. She jumped. “Ready?” I asked pointedly.
“Yes.” She seemed very flustered. “So nice to meet you, Rafe.”