Little Matchmakers. Jennifer Greene
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needed a stop in the boy’s bathroom, Garnet leaned against the cool wall and closed her eyes. She replayed every second of her conversation with Mrs. Riddle. Then did it all over again.
The lump in her throat refused to disappear.
She’d always been a marshmallow. A soft, peace-loving marshmallow. Confrontations always gave her nightmares.
Still, where her son was concerned, Garnet could change from happy wallflower into riled-up mama porcupine in two seconds flat. Nobody hurt her son. It was hard for her to hear even the smallest criticism of Petie for the obvious reason.
He wasn’t just the best thing in her life. He was the best kid in the entire universe.
For Mrs. Riddle’s sake, the teacher was lucky she hadn’t picked on Petie.
Instead, she’d picked on Garnet.
Normally Garnet was braced for criticism. Lots of people had found fault with her—particularly in her own family. Lots of people claimed she’d disappointed them. But no one had ever suggested that she wasn’t a good mother. At least before today.
Garnet still had the lump in her throat, the stab in her heart. Mrs. Riddle hadn’t exactly said that she was an inadequate mom, but she’d implied it. A boy needed male role models. She’d failed to provide them. And that didn’t bite just because the teacher said it. It bit because Garnet had worried about the same darn thing for eons now.
Absently she lifted a hand and immediately discovered a ragged cuticle.
Dang it. She loved working with dirt. Dirt, herbs, spices, flowers, plants of all kinds. But she always wore gloves when she was working outside—not because she was vain about her hands, but because of this. The instant a nail split, or a cuticle got ragged, she couldn’t stand it. She had to fix it. She couldn’t think with a frayed cuticle.
She was just biting the offending cuticle when a Mack truck ran into her.
The air whooshed out of her lungs. Her head hit the cement wall at the same time the Mack truck tire connected with her foot … the vulnerable, naked foot in the green Teva sandals.
“Aw, hell. Aw, hell. I’m really sorry. I wasn’t looking—are you all right?”
If she were unconscious and in a coma, she’d have recognized that low, wicked baritone. Tucker. Tucker MacKinnon.
It just wasn’t fair. Being hit with a real Mack truck, she could have coped with. Freight train, no problem. Bulldozer, ditto. Anything or anyone but Tucker.
He was undoubtedly trying to help, by steadying her, then rushing his hands down her arms, his gaze searching, seeking any injuries. She certainly had some. The back of her head was gushing something warm and wet, and so was her right foot.
None of the injuries were lethal. She was just going to be stuck with a couple of bruises. He was big; she was small. That was the total equation. It’s just that if she had to have an accident, she wished it could have happened with anything but Tucker. Anyone but Tucker.
“I’m fine,” she said. Although temporarily she was pretty sure her right foot was broken in fifty or sixty places.
“You can’t be fine. You’re not fine. Damn. The back of your head’s getting a goose egg, and there’s blood.”
Undoubtedly. She’d scraped her head against the cement wall. Something had to give, and it hadn’t been the wall.
“Let me see.” His eyes were suddenly close enough for her to experience that electric-blue color close up. “The school’s so deserted I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be there. I was waiting for my son, thinking, not looking where I was going. Listen—”
After checking out her head, his hands cuffed her shoulders again. He was still squinting. Still searching for injuries. She was still dying, but more from embarrassment by then, particularly when he hunkered down.
“Broke your big toenail.” He winced in sympathy. “Just hope I didn’t break a toe. Or two.”
He had. But who cared? Once the football hero of the county—there was no one in the county who didn’t know the MacKinnon name—and he was kneeling at her feet. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
“How about if you just sit down right here, in the hall. I’ll run into the office. They have to have some Band-Aids and first-aid supplies around here.” Again, he tilted her head, not to look for injuries this time. He met her eyes. “Garnet, I couldn’t be sorrier.”
“It’s okay. Honestly. Don’t bother. I’ve got first-aid stuff at home.”
He’d always made her nervous. It wasn’t his fault, nothing he did. It was her. She’d always felt goofy around him. Drawing attention to herself over a hurt only made it worse.
“Nonsense. You don’t want to trail blood into your car. And I think we should get some ice on your head. Just hold up. I’ll be back in two shakes.”
He’d barely taken three strides before Pete charged out of the boy’s bathroom, saw her and sprinted over. He seemed to recognize Tucker as an afterthought, and immediately frowned. “Mr. MacKinnon. Did you hurt my mom?”
“No, Pete. Well, yes. I mean, I did, but it wasn’t intentional—”
“Pete, I’m totally okay.”
Pete, even if he was built on the small side, could turn more protective than a marine. He pushed his round glasses higher on his nose and faced Tucker. “Why would you hurt my mom? What happened?”
The commotion must have been heard from a distance, because from the office hall, Tucker’s tall son suddenly charged into view. “Dad. Hey. What’s going on. Mrs. Cattrell, how come you’re bleeding?”
“Your dad hurt my mom,” Petie informed him.
Will’s jaw dropped. “No way.”
“Just look at my mom if you don’t believe me. She’s bleeding all over the place.”
“But my dad would never do anything like that. That’s dumb.”
Tucker had to raise his voice to be heard. “Boys. Both of you. Go to the office. Ask for a first-aid kit and an ice pack.”
Both boys laid out an “okay” and galloped together down the side hall, looking a lot like Mutt and Jeff. Garnet wanted to echo again that she was fine, and just wanted to go home, but it was like arguing with a freight train.
Tucker hunkered down again. “I know. You’re going to live. But it won’t kill you to have those two places disinfected and covered up.”
“I know. I just hate—”
His tone changed, turned quieter. “Garnet. I heard what Mrs. Riddle said about your Petie. And this is obviously a poor time to pursue the subject. But I think we might both benefit from talking together.”
“Talk about …?”
“My Will. Your Pete.” He hesitated. “It’s probably easier for me to get away than you. I could steal an hour around seven tonight. You free then?”
Free was a relative word. Like the song said, freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose, and looking at Tucker, Garnet knew perfectly well that she had a ton to lose by spending any time with him. Her dignity … although she’d already lost most of that, by bleeding all over the school hall. Her pride … though, she still had her pride. Something she’d guarded tighter than gold for the last few years.
“I just want to talk about the boys,” he said. “A half hour? Your place?”
The boys. Truth was, she wouldn’t mind talking about Petie. If there was an alpha male in a three-state radius, it was Tucker. After Mrs. Riddle’s comments, Garnet really wouldn’t mind hearing his opinion.
“A half hour,” she conceded