Part 8 (2/2)
Mr. Cross gave a rusty chuckle, lifting his chin toward the thoroughfare of Town Street. ”Well, I won't keep you two from catchin' up. Hunt, you take your time. Emerson, it sure was nice to see you.”
”You sure you're good here with Owen and Eli?” Hunter asked, sending a curl of guilt through Emerson's belly.
”I don't want to keep you from work,” she said, but his father waved off her concern with a lift of one work-callused hand.
”Don't make me fire him, now.” A wink slipped flawlessly over his warm gray gaze. ”We'll be just fine here, don't you worry. And make sure you come up and see us in the strawberry fields, you hear? We'll see to it you get the best of the picking.”
Emerson's stomach perked up and took notice, right along with her taste buds. Strawberries were her absolute favorite. She could probably eat a pound of them without so much as slowing down, maybe even two if they were fresh. ”That's awfully kind. Thank you.”
”Ah, it's my pleasure.”
”I'll be back in an hour,” Hunter said, waiting for his father to amble back under the tent with Lucy on his heels before gesturing toward the milling crowd on Town Street. ”So what do you say? You ready to get back in the swing of things, small-town girl?”
Although keeping her laughter in check was a total no-go, she still wasn't about to cave completely. ”Don't push your luck, hotshot.”
”Wouldn't dream of it,” Hunter said, although the smile tugging at his lips said otherwise.
Emerson blocked out the sudden shock of heat between her hips, forcing her feet to do the one-after-the-other thing while she inhaled to a count of five. Head up. Eyes forward. Focus. ”Your father's still as nice as ever.”
”He still flirts with all the pretty girls,” Hunter corrected. ”Believe me, you'd change your tune if you had to harvest corn with the man in the middle of August.”
”You say that as if you hate harvesting corn. Somehow, I'm not sure I believe that.”
He paused to squint at her through the overbright sunlight, finally lifting one shoulder beneath the white cotton of his T-s.h.i.+rt. ”Fair enough. I love my job, even when it's tough. But you're not really a stranger to that concept, are you?”
She lifted her hands in concession. No point denying the obvious. ”Guilty as charged.”
”Nah,” Hunter said, his boots keeping time with the soft clack-clack-clack of her sandals on the pavement. ”If you're meant for something, the last thing you should feel about it is guilt.”
”You think I'm meant for my job?” The urge to let her jaw drop in shock was strong, but he didn't skip so much as a step or a breath.
”Yeah. Don't you?”
”Oh, I know I'm meant for my job.” That wasn't the no-brainer part of the equation. ”I guess I'm just surprised that you think so. We've only been working together for a week.”
”True,” Hunter said slowly. ”But this isn't my first rodeo with this shoulder. You know all sorts of exercises and tricks that I've never done before, and I'm already feeling worlds better. I guess I'm just calling it like I see it.”
”b.u.t.tering me up won't get you out of working hard for the next three weeks, you know.” She arched a brow at him, all show, and he laughed in return.
”Duly noted. So how are things going at the physical therapy center now that you've had a week to settle in?”
Ugh. Emerson tried to brazen her way through a smile, but the sudden pinch in her chest made it a tough go. ”A little slow,” she admitted, and screw it. She couldn't violate anyone's privacy when there was no one's privacy to violate. ”You're kind of my only client right now.”
”Really?” Hunter's chocolate-brown lashes fanned upward to frame his obvious shock.
Unable to resist, she pulled a page from his playbook. ”Small town,” she said. ”In truth, I figured building a client base might be tough going at first. I ended up spending most of this week getting the center organized.”
Not that that would last much longer. The place was only so big, and even with the supplemental equipment she and the doc had ordered this week, nearly everything had found a place to belong. Well, except for Emerson, anyway.
Hunter's brows gathered beneath the brim of his faded blue baseball hat, his eyes skimming the crowd around them. ”With all the people doing manual labor on the farms out this way, I'm surprised you don't have more folks coming in for treatment.”
”Doc Sanders and I have talked about me working with some of her patients on preventive care,” Emerson said. ”People with past injuries or chronic conditions like arthritis and degenerative joint damage can be a lot less likely to experience complications if they engage in regular therapeutic exercise.”
”So you want to try to nip their pain in the bud, huh? Seems smart.”
”In theory, sure.” As far as Emerson was concerned, the only thing better than helping a client heal was keeping their pain from happening in the first place. ”Concept and reality don't always play nicely, though. Everyone in Millhaven trusts Doc to take care of them.”
Realization flared in Hunter's eyes as he finished her sentence. ”But they don't trust you yet.”
She nodded, forcing a breath past the tightness in her chest. ”Exactly. Most people haven't even stopped staring when I stop at the Corner Market for coffee creamer. As far as they're concerned, I'm on the outside looking in.”
Cutting her teeth as a brand-new therapist five years ago had been difficult enough, and she'd been part of a busy practice in New York at the time. Flying solo to gain the faith of the people in the small town she'd left behind?
Definitely more of an uphill battle than she'd expected, even with Doc Sanders's help.
For a minute, Hunter didn't say anything, just walked comfortably next to her as they moved past people browsing at nearby tents and waiting in line for everything from funnel cake to kettle corn. ”You keep saying you're an outsider, but I'm not sure I'm convinced.”
”And you keep saying I fit right in,” Emerson pointed out. ”But I'm not convinced of that, either.”
”Okay.” Hunter dished up a lazy smile, and G.o.d, how could one tiny dimple still be her Kryptonite after twelve freaking years? ”Just remember, you asked for it.”
Not waiting for her to answer, he scooped up her hand to guide her through the crowd. The gesture was so simple, so natural and easy, that by the time the surprise had slipped through her system, Emerson had already wrapped her fingers around his. Heat rippled up from the asphalt, and even though the temperature had to be close to record breaking, the buzz of excitement in the air relaxed her. Kids darted from tent to tent, their lips stained red from snow cones and their faces lit with sheer bliss, and even the adults running after them looked laid back and happy.
Emerson recognized a handful of people in the crowd, her smile coming easier and easier as many of them smiled first. Sure, a few folks (okay . . . most of them) went wide-eyed as she and Hunter pa.s.sed by, and yes, some eyebrows (specifically, Mollie Mae's and Kelsey Lambert's) winged upward at the sight of their interlaced fingers. But the sights and the sounds and the smells reminded Emerson of all the best parts of Millhaven, to the point that she couldn't deny the truth even as it surprised her.
She'd missed this town.
The unmistakably smoky scent of barbecue filled the air, sending a p.r.i.c.kle of antic.i.p.ation down Emerson's spine. ”Oh, low blow,” she said, although her laughter refused to let the sentiment stick. ”You're going to entice me into feeling at home with Harley Martin's barbecue?”
Hunter looked at her as if she'd taken leave of every last one of her senses. ”Uh, yeah. For starters. There's even a new addition to the menu that I think you're going to like.”
He led the way from the main drag to the narrow stretch of gra.s.s in front of the firehouse, where a line of people at least ten deep stood waiting to be served. Harley's daughter Mich.e.l.le, who had been a year ahead of Emerson in school but looked as if she'd barely aged a nanosecond, stood next to her father. The two of them worked in tandem to serve up pulled-pork sandwiches along with heaping portions of coleslaw and cups of what appeared to be potato salad, and despite her aversion to all things mayonnaise, suddenly Emerson couldn't remember the last time she'd been so darn hungry.
”Hey, there, what can I . . . oh my word.” Mich.e.l.le's tongs. .h.i.t the serving counter built into the food warmer in front of her with a metallic clack. ”Emerson Montgomery! I heard you were back in town. And all the way from Las Vegas!”
A hard shot of heat swept over Emerson's cheeks at the attention, but she still managed a smile. ”Hi, Mich.e.l.le. It's nice to see you.”
”Aren't you still as polite as ever.” Mich.e.l.le's genuine laugh marked the words as a compliment, and she turned toward her father, who was manning the gigantic steel drum smoker a few paces away. ”Pop, look who's here.”
Harley looked up, his silvery beard parting to accommodate his grin. ”Well, I'll be! Emerson Montgomery. Last time we saw you, you weren't but fresh outta high school, girl. Glad to see you came to your senses and moved back home.”
Nope. Not touching that one. ”And I'm glad to see you're still making the best barbecue in the continental US,” Emerson said, every breath of it the truth despite the dodge in topic. She'd traveled from coast to coast with the Lightning, sampling barbecue everywhere from the Carolinas to Kansas City to Texas. Harley's had always won the blue ribbon in her mind, hands down.
”Still smart.” Harley pointed his tongs at her before tipping his graying head at Mich.e.l.le. ”Make sure this girl gets extra servings, now. Gotta remind her we do things right 'round here.”
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