Part 5 (2/2)
”Right.” Emerson controlled her voice, smoothing the words over her quickening heartbeat. ”Well, I guess we'd better continue with your session.”
She straightened, her knees suddenly aching in time with her lower back. The three hours she'd spent driving to her new neurologist's office all the way out in Lockridge two days ago hadn't done her joints any favors, but no way could she risk seeing a specialist in Camden Valley. G.o.d, she should've known that escaping her father's shadow was going to be a full-time job now that she was back in Millhaven.
Emerson gestured to the portable ma.s.sage table, and although Hunter's smile didn't budge, his body didn't, either.
”Looks like I'm not the only one with mental stress.”
Knowing he'd seen the hitch in her shoulders and that he'd never buy it if she said she was fine, Emerson went for option number two: deflection. ”Maybe, but you are the only one with a therapy session right now.”
Of course he didn't bite. ”This session might have my name on it, but we're both here.” Hunter lowered one end of the pole to the floor, leaning against the other just as easy as you please, and dammit, eyes that blue should seriously come with some kind of warning label.
”You want to talk about it?” he asked. ”I mean, I am sort of a captive audience, and you said it yourself. Relaxation does a body good.”
The ache in her back twisted and throbbed. Listening to Hunter talk about Cross Creek was one thing, a thing that had gone a long way toward helping him get through today's therapy session. But listening was in a whole different universe from talking, and airing out her personal life was a far cry from a little back and forth for the greater good. Letting anyone in wasn't part of the plan to work hard and move on.
Letting Hunter in, with that rugged smile and those ice-blue eyes that had always tempted her to let down her t.i.tanium-reinforced guard?
That was downright dangerous. Because if Emerson started talking to him, she might not stop until every last secret was out on the table. And she could not, under any circ.u.mstances, allow that to happen. No one could know she was sick. Damaged. Defective. No one.
No matter how crus.h.i.+ngly heavy the weight of her recent diagnosis was.
Head up. Eyes forward. Just work.
”I'm fine,” she said, turning toward the portable ma.s.sage table and ordering the rest of his session in her head. External rotation exercises, posterior deltoid static stretches, pressure point ma.s.sage . . . yeah, they'd be good to go.
At least, they would be, if Hunter stopped pinning her with that X-ray vision stare. ”Are you sure? Because I really don't-”
”Thanks for the offer, but I really am fine,” Emerson said, dialing up every last ounce of her resolve along with a courteous smile. They'd made a ton of progress today. She didn't want to lose that momentum. ”Your shoulder looks strong enough for some new exercises. Why don't you get comfortable on the table and we'll give some lateral raises a try.”
Hunter looked at her for what had to be the longest minute of her entire thirty years, and, please, please, all she wanted was to be able to do her job, to help him heal.
To bury herself in the one thing she had left.
Finally, he dropped his eyes and lowered his body to the exam table.
”Lateral raises it is. You're the boss.”
CHAPTER SEVEN.
Hunter rocked back on the heels of his farm-dusty work boots, taking in the early-morning view of Town Street with equal shots of excitement and unease. He'd been up since before daybreak, which for a Sat.u.r.day in June wasn't necessarily news. But Millhaven's Fifty-Sixth Annual Watermelon Festival kept today from being any run-of-the-mill Sat.u.r.day, just like Hunter's shoulder injury was keeping him from being able to fully relax. With the workout his comfort zone had gotten over the last week, it was the eighth wonder of the world the d.a.m.n thing hadn't detonated. Still, even though he'd been put on restrictive duty for working the festivities, the sights and the sounds and the antic.i.p.ation brewing in front of him right now made not smiling pretty much a statistical impossibility.
Every year for the Watermelon Festival, the two-lane thoroughfare of Town Street was closed off to through traffic, allowing everyone in Millhaven to gather along its path to set up tents and tables to showcase their wares. The whole ”watermelon” part of the festival had grown more symbolic than literal over time, although Owen and their father had loaded a dozen crates of hothouse Queen of Hearts and another ten of Sugar Babies into their produce truck at the whip crack of dawn. It had wiped out their supply d.a.m.n near completely-watermelons were a tough grow in smaller greenhouses, and the ones they had infield wouldn't be ready for harvest for a couple more weeks-but for this, it was worth the pain in the pants. The Watermelon Festival was a celebration of the impending summer, with everything from horseshoe compet.i.tions to pie-eating contests to old Harley Martin serving up pulled-pork barbecue out of a drum smoker that'd been around since Methuselah.
The event wasn't just a draw for revenue, although the fact that people came from all over the Shenandoah to enjoy the festivities didn't hurt. To Hunter, the Watermelon Festival was more like a chance for everyone to show off what made the town special. Mrs. Ellersby's hand-sewn quilts, the Baker's Dozen's fresh-canned jams and jellies and even fresher-baked cakes and cookies, the detailed truck tours the fire department gave to every wide-eyed kid who came asking-every last contribution made the festival as unique as a fingerprint and as warm as the handshake that went with it.
Millhaven might not qualify as the big time, or okay, even have a fast-food restaurant within a thirty-mile radius, but d.a.m.n, Hunter loved this town.
”Well, aren't you just standing there looking pretty as a prom queen,” came a voice from over his shoulder, and he put a sardonic edge to his smile as he (barely) bit back the urge to give his little brother a single-fingered salute.
”Not me. That falls square under the heading of Your Job.” While Hunter liked to think he wasn't terrible to look at, Eli had always gotten far more play with the opposite s.e.x than him and Owen combined. A c.o.c.ky smile, some flirty innuendo, and bam. Eli had someone's panties in his pocket. The a.s.shole.
Of course, Eli just laughed. ”Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. Where do you want these, Boss Man?” He used his chin to gesture to the wooden crates full of collards and spinach stacked three high in his grasp.
Hunter held on to his smile, although suddenly, it was a stretch. ”Come on, now. Don't add being in charge of you to my resume. That's a full-time job all by itself, brother.”
”Please.” Eli snorted without losing his grin. ”Half the time, I'm not even in charge of me. But don't worry. I know you're not all hat and no cattle, Hunt. The clipboard's temporary. Once you ditch it in a few weeks, I'll try bossing you around the farm.”
”Believe me, I'd pa.s.s this thing over with a hallelujah if my shoulder would let me.” Hunter held up the old-school brown clipboard between his fingers before sending his gaze back to the trio of oversized canopy tents Owen and their father had finished putting together just a few minutes ago.
”All the greens are going to go over here, so I guess just set them down in the middle tent 'til we get the rest of the tables unloaded and good to go,” he said, double-checking the schematic he'd drawn up last night with the reality of the setup on the street in front of him. His fingers itched like crazy to take the triple-stacked crates out of Eli's hands and move them himself-s.h.i.+t, they weren't that heavy-but he burned the energy on adjusting his baseball hat and bending down to give Lucy a scratch behind the ears instead. He'd ended the week on a high note in physical therapy. Pus.h.i.+ng his luck would be stupid, no matter how tempting.
Haven't you ever wondered what if?
Speaking of pus.h.i.+ng his luck.
Not to mention tempting.
”Whoa.” Eli stopped short, lowering the crates to the asphalt with a thunk as his brows winged up toward his hairline. ”That's a h.e.l.luva face. You feelin' okay?”
”Yup.” The auto answer shoveled past Hunter's lips, but Christ, the sentiment behind it still sat in his chest like a wad of cold rubber cement. No matter what she'd said at the end of their session yesterday, Emerson wasn't fine.
And no matter how much he knew he should, Hunter couldn't forget the look on her face when she'd lied.
Eli measured him for a minute before throwing a thumb into the belt loop of his Wranglers. ”Tell you what,” he said, his voice all lazy drawl. ”We got here before nearly any of the other vendors, so we're ahead of the game. Why don't we take a break for a quick spin up the street to see what we can see.”
”I don't know.” Hunter eyed the filled-to-the-gills box truck. ”There's a lot of work to be done here. Owen packed up two dozen crates of specialty produce alone, and that was even before the regular stuff like corn and greens.” He gestured around Town Street. ”We've got one of the biggest tents at the festival.”
”We also have a b.u.t.tload of time on our side,” Eli said with a patented grin. ”I'm not saying we should skip out entirely, but come on, dude. If I plan on kicking Greyson Whittaker's a.s.s from here to the moon in Clementine Parker's pie-eating contest-and trust me, that is so in my game plan for today-I've gotta build my appet.i.te.”
Hunter squinted at the sky, measuring the time by the sunlight and shadows. ”I guess there won't be too much left to do after we get these crates unloaded,” he said, cracking a grin that sent his pulse back into business-as-usual territory. ”Okay, why not?”
”Excellent.” Eli slapped his hands together, but Hunter pointed the clipboard at him in a not so fast motion.
”We still have to get the greens done. And don't forget about the heirloom tomatoes, either. We ended up with a ton, so I figured we'd put 'em up front so Owen can brag like a proud papa.”
”Greens and tomatoes. You got it, Boss Man.”
This time, Hunter did give Eli the finger, although his laughter probably made it a tough sell. Really, he should be happier than a pig in a puddle that he'd made progress in PT this week, just like he definitely knew he should leave Emerson Montgomery in the past where she belonged. He might've found the way she'd brazenly ditched her just-business demeanor to ask him about the farm kind of s.e.xy, and the way she'd laughed and really listened to his answers? s.e.xier still.
But she'd lied through her pretty pearly whites when she'd said she was fine, and s.h.i.+t, wasn't that just one more reason not to trust her? Emerson wasn't just playing her personal life close to the vest. She was hiding something, and her stubborn refusal to not only tell him what was wrong so he could try to return the favor and help her, but to admit that her world was anything other than all systems go was sending him around the f.u.c.king bend.
Even if her expertise as a therapist was helping him heal.
Hunter shook his head, sliding his thoughts back to the sunny stretch of asphalt in front of him. Working with Emerson was his ticket back to business as usual on Cross Creek's front lines, which meant p.i.s.sing her off with nosy pushback was definitely not in his best interest. His bulls.h.i.+t detector might've detonated when she'd claimed she was fine, but she'd backed up the claim for the rest of their session. Yeah, he was still certain she was hiding something, but she was nothing if not iron willed. If she didn't want to open up to him, he couldn't make her.
<script>