Once Bitten Twice Shy. Sommer Marsden
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wonder, had he hurt himself? The next, a truly terrifying thought, would he sue her? She pushed it all out of her head as she dropped to her haunches and held out her hand to him. ‘Are you OK? Are you hurt?’
He took the offered hand, his much bigger and cooler than hers thanks to the chilly October temperature. She had a moment of near hysterical amusement when she saw her fingers smear yellow ochre paint over his wrist as he clasped them. She bit her lip and began to tug as he struggled to get himself on an even keel.
Then she froze. ‘Wait! Should we move you? Should you…um –’ she blew out a breath to try and get her mind to focus ‘– stay in the hole?’
His eyebrows shot up. Thick and dark-brown above even browner eyes. It made her laugh. All her hysterical worry, fear and bizarre amusement came bubbling up at once.
‘Why in the world would I stay in the hole?’ With that, he got his foot on the grass and stooped, hands on knees, to catch his breath. He looked up at her, his eyes bright in the stark autumn sunlight. ‘I think you’re thinking of a head injury. When you drop into a hole, protocol is to usually get out as soon as possible.’
More crazy laughter tried to escape and she pressed her hand against her lips to tame the urge to release it. ‘Sorry. I was just…worried. Are you OK?’
He nodded and finally stood up straight. He popped his back and she winced at the sound. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That’s from years of football, not the hole in the middle of your yard.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Jack Murphy. Your new lawn guy.’
She took it and shook, noticing the way his fingers felt pressed against her wrist. She noted nicks and scars on his flesh and thought they’d be wonderful to paint, those beat-up hands.
‘August. Adams. August Adams,’ she repeated, blinking against a sudden gust of wind. ‘I’m sorry about the hole. As you can see, I really do need a lawn guy. Or a hole guy.’
When the words registered she felt her embarrassment flame in her face. She was certain that two big swatches of red stood out on her cheeks as if she’d been slapped.
He chuckled at that, took off his cap and ran a hand through his unruly brown hair. ‘I’ll say. You must have had a tree here at one point.’
August nodded. ‘Pear tree.’
‘Ah, and let me guess, the wood went soft, it started dropping limbs and then you had to have it removed.’
‘We have a winner,’ she said. ‘It actually dropped a limb on my Jeep. So that’s when I had to bite the bullet and get someone to take it down. Before it killed someone. Or my Jeep.’
He smiled and it caught her off-guard. When he smiled the skin around his eyes crinkled and made his rugged face a bit softer, more boyish. The smile itself was broad and friendly and, as odd as the thought seemed, welcoming. ‘Well, you have to protect a good Jeep. I –’ He glanced down and August followed suit.
‘Oh, crap, you’re –’
He levelled that intense gaze at her and something sleepy and slow rolled over in her chest. It was an unusual but peaceful feeling. She refused to acknowledge it. It helped when he said, ‘I know it’s very unprofessional of me to ask to use your bathroom but I appear to be –’
‘Bleeding!’ she said. Then she turned on her heels before she could admire that warm smile any longer. ‘Come with me. I have peroxide and bandages and I’ll even make you a coffee since you fell into my pit of despair on the very first day.’
She found it easier to talk to him over her shoulder. That way she didn’t have to notice how handsome he was. And she didn’t have to notice herself noticing.
He sat on her paint stool, his trouser leg rolled up so it was above his knee. There was a small tear, minimal blood, and the reason her hands were shaking was because of him. Not his wound. Being close to him had made her jittery like she’d had too much caffeine or too little sleep. It had been a long time since any man had given her a jolt. At first she figured it was the shock of seeing him fall, but now, close up, she saw it had more to do with him and the faint endearing energy that seemed to radiate off him. She’d never had someone make her feel nervous and calm all at the same time.
She tried to keep her focus by slowly removing the tabs from the bandages and then carefully put them in a crisscross, forming an X, over his wound.
He smelled like fresh air and green grass with just a hint of something else she couldn’t place.
‘Painter?’ he said. His gaze ticked slowly around the studio as she attended to his battle scars.
She stood, stretched her back and kept her eyes off him. She looked at everything but him. The irises she was working on. A series of hyper-coloured flowers, the current ones being done in the yellow ochre she’d smeared all over him.
‘Yep. Painter. What gave me away?’
When he grinned at her, she glanced back at her work. Better to look at the work than at his handsome face.
Jack rolled his trouser leg back down and fingered the hole in the knee.
‘Sorry, I’ll get you new ones,’ she said, finally.
‘No worries.’
‘No, really. My fault, I insist.’
He stood and walked over to a finished painting. The only one in the entire studio she considered truly finished. It showed the ocean during the day but the water was coloured the true reds and oranges of a sunset. The body of water reflecting a horizon that wasn’t there.
Her heart stuttered. He reached out as if to touch it and she flinched. In his peripheral vision he must have caught the reaction because he stopped before actually placing a finger on the canvas. ‘Sorry,’ he said, drawing his hand back.
‘It might be wet is all,’ she lied. The painting had been dry for a decade. ‘Let me walk you out,’ she said. She had to get him out. Now. Fast.
At the door she stopped him. ‘Seriously, let me write you a cheque for the trousers. And if you need to go to the doctor –’
He shook his head before she could finish. ‘You have a pole with a red flag in the hole,’ he said.
August blinked. ‘Yeah? And?’
Jack grinned again and she felt that electric feeling once more in her gut. It unnerved her more than seeing him take a spill.
‘And I was too distracted to pay attention. That’s not your fault, Ms Adams. It’s mine.’
She’d forgotten he knew her name. For some damn stupid reason, it threw her for a second and she said, ‘August, please.’
He inclined his head. ‘August.’ With a smile he went on. ‘This is nothing I haven’t done to my own trousers with a weed whacker or on a fence.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘Look, I know this is weird. I fell into a hole in your yard, I had my trousers rolled up in your studio…’ A chuckle that seemed to shiver right through the centre of her came from his lips. ‘But I have a friend – Alice. She’s an artist, too. She has a showing at that teeny-tiny gallery by the coffee shop on Bradford Avenue. I think you’d like her stuff. If you have any interest in going, it’s next week.’
Then he looked at her. Those brown eyes seemed bottomless. And kind. So very kind.
A cool sweat broke out on her forehead and she exhaled loudly. August was attracted to him, there was no denying that now. Not just physically either. He was a nice person. A seemingly kind and open person. And it scared the shit out of her.
She shook her head quickly. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘Plans?’ he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
‘Yeah.’