Part 4 (1/2)
”Lance Devlin?” A bitter-burnt taste filled Hunter's mouth, and d.a.m.n, whoever had made the coffee this morning needed to lighten the load with the grounds.
Eli pulled a face only a mother could love, and even then, only at a fifty-fifty shot. ”I don't care how many yards he racks up in a season. If that guy was an ice cream flavor, he'd be pralines and d.i.c.k.”
A tiny smile tempted the corners of Hunter's mouth, but he kept the gesture in check. Emerson had gone all close to the vest the minute he'd mentioned Lance the other day. She didn't seem the type to come home after twelve long years just to lick her wounds over a breakup, even from a high-profile d.i.c.k-uh, football player. While Hunter suspected there was a whole lot more to Emerson's return to Millhaven than un-dating Lance Devlin, she was clearly still touchy about the situation. The fact that she and Lance had called it quits shouldn't make him happy.
Oh, who the h.e.l.l was he kidding? This was a guy who'd recently told the media, ”There might not be an 'I' in team, but there sure is a 'me.'”
Emerson deserved better.
”Yeah. I guess I'd better get to the books,” Hunter said, ungracefully closing the conversation. But h.e.l.l, between his gimpy shoulder and his brothers' propensity for acting like the farm was some sort of no-holds-barred cage match, Hunter's status quo had taken enough of a whack this week. Throwing thoughts of Emerson Montgomery and her newly single relations.h.i.+p status on top of all that?
Fuel, meet flame. Better to snuff his feelings out now and move on with the business of healing so nothing exploded, at Cross Creek or in his personal life.
Hunter exchanged a quick ”see ya later” with Eli, downing the last of his now-cold coffee as he headed to the main house. Stopping in the kitchen just long enough for a refill, he headed for the main-level bedroom his father had converted into an office about fifteen years ago. He grabbed a handheld radio from the charger out of habit before his stomach clenched with the realization that he really didn't need the thing since he'd be parked inside all morning. Still, Hunter clipped the radio to the belt loop of his wash-faded Wranglers anyway as he turned to survey the room in front of him.
A large, L-shaped walnut desk claimed center stage on the old red-and-tan area rug spread over the floorboards, its surface covered by a hulking desktop computer and haphazard stacks of papers and file folders. Three metal file cabinets stood sentry in the left-hand corner of the room, the sunlight filtering in from the windows on the opposite wall illuminating the dents and dings in each one. The only thing in the room that made Hunter even consider a smile was the roly-poly black-and-white mutt happily snoring away at the foot of the desk.
”You're busted, old girl.” Hunter placed his coffee next to the computer monitor, bending to scratch Lucy behind the ears. ”You gonna keep me from going around the bend today? I sure could use the help.”
There was a four-way tie among the Cross men for who hated bookkeeping the most, and their old man's aversion to technology didn't smooth the process. But, come on. They were farmers, not number crunchers. Give Hunter complex soil compositions or planting timetables any day of the week and twice on Sunday, and he'd balance 'em on a blade of Kentucky bluegra.s.s. Spreadsheets and accounting software and maximizing marketing trends via social media?
The thought alone was enough to give him the f.u.c.king shakes.
Still, the work needed to be done, and as much as he'd rather have a prostate exam than manage the books, Hunter wasn't about to sit back and play tiddlywinks just because he was injured. Parking himself firmly in the Windsor-back chair his father had liberated from the dining room over a decade ago, he dug into the closest pile of papers.
Three hours, two cups of coffee, and one giant neck cramp later, Hunter was actually filled with relief at the idea of heading into town for his PT session with Emerson.
Emerson, who spoke to him only about his standards of care and the hotter-than-usual weather they seemed to be having. Emerson, whose pretty, ocean-colored eyes flashed with something he couldn't quite label but that jabbed at his gut all the same. Emerson, whose hands felt way better on him than they should.
On second thought, maybe the d.a.m.ned bookkeeping would be less stressful.
Hunter quickly traded his jeans and work boots for a pair of basketball shorts and cross-trainers, plucking the keys to his F-250 from the table in the front hall and heading for his truck. He kept his windows rolled down, even though it was hotter than h.e.l.l's doorstep outside, hoping the fresh air would kick his unease to the curb on the short drive into town. But all the weather did was dampen his T-s.h.i.+rt with perspiration, not to mention remind him of everything he'd been missing for the last week straight while he rode the pine down at Cross Creek.
So much for losing his c.r.a.ptastic mood. Now Hunter was hacked off and sweaty, and if the pain cranking through the back of his shoulder was any indication, no closer to healing his way back into action than he had been at the start of this week. Biting down on his irritation, he slid out of the truck, moving past Doc Sanders's front office to push his way through the door to the physical therapy room.
”Wow,” Emerson said, looking up from behind the scuffed fake wood veneer of the reception desk. ”Tough morning?”
”No. Everything's great.” The default springboarded past Hunter's lips, although the untruth pinched like a son of a b.i.t.c.h. ”Yeah, maybe,” he recanted.
”Are you in pain?” A crease of genuine worry formed between her cinnamon-colored brows, but Hunter was quick to shake his head.
”No, nothing like that. I mean, my shoulder's still pretty sore, but . . .” Remembering their just-business agreement, he started to jam his feelings of frustration back into his rib cage.
But, funny, they flat out refused to go. ”I guess I'm not used to sitting on the sidelines at Cross Creek. This morning's just been pretty rough, is all.”
”Ah.” Emerson rolled up the sleeves of her light-blue blouse, waving him past the desk. ”Well, let's take a look at your sore spots and see what we're dealing with in that shoulder.”
Right. Just business. Surely she had an exercise or three in her bottomless a.r.s.enal of ways to torture him.
Hunter crossed the threshold of the reception desk, holding still and trying to breathe through the ache while she pressed and prodded his shoulder over his T-s.h.i.+rt.
”Hmm. You're pretty locked up today. You haven't been doing any lifting, have you?”
”Nothing other than an inventory clipboard and the desk chair in the office,” he said, the reminder filling him with a fresh shot of exasperation.
Her fingers stilled on his rotator cuff, a soft ”aha” floating over his shoulder.
”Is something wrong?” His pulse thumped faster in his veins. His day-h.e.l.l, his entire week-had been bad enough, thank you very much. A setback with this injury would obliterate the last shreds of his usually stalwart calm.
”I'm pretty sure I found the source of your problem. Good news is, it should be an easy fix once we get started.” Emerson looked up at him, her smile professional and polite. But now that they were separated by less than an arm's length, Hunter could see the shadows beneath her eyes that she'd done her best to cover, along with the tiny worry lines etched on her pretty face.
But it was the flicker of pure vulnerability, so out of place in the capable, confident stare she'd worn all week, that popped him right in the chest.
”Emerson, are you okay?”
His mouth launched the question before his brain even knew it would fully form, and although the part of him that didn't go borrowing trouble wished for a rewind, a deeper part of him p.r.i.c.kled in sudden concern.
”I'm fine,” she said, her expression growing so smooth that he had to wonder if he'd just been projecting his own fatigue onto her. ”How about you? Are you ready for our session?”
Hunter's worry screeched to a halt on his tongue. He might not have as much c.o.c.ky charm as his brother Eli, but he knew better than to tell a woman she looked tired-h.e.l.l, he might as well plaster himself with four-foot signs that read, ”Kick Me in the Junk.” Anyhow, Emerson looked fine now, albeit serious, and the way she felt was really none of his business.
”As ready as I'll ever be, I guess.” He shook off the last of the odd feeling and followed her over the linoleum.
”Good. We can start with a few minutes of warm-up on the arm bike.” She moved farther into the therapy room before adding, ”I'm glad you're following doctor's orders. But as far as hating the sidelines goes, you're preaching to the pulpit.”
Huh. Can't say he'd been expecting that. But anything was better than small-talking their way through the weather report. What the h.e.l.l. He'd bite. ”Am I really?”
Emerson turned to deliver a look of brows-up surprise over one shoulder. ”Does that honestly shock you?”
”A little, yeah. Not that you don't have a serious work ethic.” h.e.l.l, she'd nearly been the end of him this week with all of her relentless exercises and mobility stretches. ”But you just left a job with the hottest football team in the NFL to come back to a town that's barely on the map, let alone the sidelines.”
The curiosity was out before Hunter could trap it, and he stopped short in front of the makes.h.i.+ft exercise area. Emerson had made it clear that sharing wasn't on her to-do list, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to get all ”k.u.mbaya” with her, anyway. He really should just shut his yap and drop the topic. ”Sorry. I'm-”
”Right.”
His pulse stuttered along with his words. ”I . . . what?”
”You're right,” she said softly, although her expression remained unrattled and unchanged as she motioned for him to sit on the rec.u.mbent bike. ”My life was a lot faster paced in Las Vegas. But just because I'm back in Millhaven doesn't mean I want to kick up my feet and rest on my laurels.”
A question formed in Hunter's brain, and s.h.i.+t. If he was going to break the just-business barrier, he might as well go all in. ”What does it mean?”
She paused. ”It means I needed a change. But lucky for your shoulder, I'm still here to work hard.” Emerson dropped her chin to adjust the hand pegs she'd attached to the upper part of the bike, a swath of hair breaking free from the low ponytail at her nape to cover her eyes. ”So Owen and Eli are at each other's throats, huh?”
”Yeah.” Okay, so she was obviously shuffling the subject, but even talking about his brothers' bickering was better than sticking to canned pleasantries like nice weather we're having and how's your shoulder pain on a scale of one to ten? ”Not a huge deal, really. Just today's version of an argument that's about a decade old.”
”Wow. That doesn't seem like no huge deal.”