Page 50 of Love is an Open Book
The other thing making this work tolerable is Riley. Gavin’s been pulled away by one person after another since we arrived, but she’s kept me entertained with gossip and snippets about her life. I have the sneaking suspicion she’s my self-appointed babysitter, but the steady flow of conversation is another thing taking my mind off the twenty bazillion lines Gavin and I crossed this morning.
Riley does in fact have a chainsaw, and looked incredibly badass using it, protective goggles and all, but she’s finished cutting down what I expertly identify as a tree-bush hybrid, and we’re hauling the branches to a giant pile by the curb.
“Did you respond?” I’ve only known her for a couple hours, but already I’m fully invested in the latest escapade of her entitled sister-in-law, who apparently counts the presents at birthday parties and sent a strongly worded text to the family group about how her beloved child got one less present than his cousin in the same calendar year.
Riley flashes me a grin. Her freckled cheeks are flushed, septum piercing twinkling in the bright sun. “I asked if she’d accounted the local sales tax increase that went into effect on May first.”
“Wait, what tax increase?”
“The one she probably wasted at least twenty minutes googling before she realized I made it up.”
I snort out a laugh. “Your poor parents, having to deal with that kind of pettiness.”
“Oh, don’t worry. They can hold their own. My mom told her maybe the other one got lost in the mail, along with her own birthday present from my sister-in-law.”
Dropping the branch, I try not to wince at the ache in my palms. “Remind me not to cross any of you.”
Without making a big deal of it, Riley tosses the limb fartherup onto the pile. “It’s our way of letting her know we’re not going to let this kind of stuff slide. But I don’t mind too much because her antics make for the best stories.” Her pale green eyes are glinting with mischief, and I recognize the joy she gets from storytelling. Exactly how I’ve always felt, until this book.
Ironic that the story that started it all might be my undoing. I won’t let it be without a fight. That’s why I’m here in the scorching sun, sweaty and dirt-streaked and entirely out of my element. I’ll do whatever it takes to get into the writing mindset.
The cotton gloves aren’t much protection and my hands feel raw from the rough bark, but I turn to go fetch another load and nearly bump into Gavin. It’s the first time we’ve run into each other since we arrived, and I’m struck again by how good he looks in the lightweight long-sleeve tee and dirt-scuffed jeans.
“When was your last water break?” he asks.
Riley steps up alongside me. “Ever the foreman, huh? We’re not even on the clock, and you’re checking up on us?”
He shakes his head, mouth in a firm line, but she cuts him off. “To answer your question, we stopped for water ten minutes ago.”
Ignoring this, he frowns at my hands. “Where’d you get those gloves?”
“They’re handing them out at the sign-in table.” I tug one off, wanting to get some fresh air on my hot skin.
“Let me see,” he says. He catches my wrist in his hand, gently, but the touch sparks sensations I’ve spent the morning burying. Turning my palm upward, he lifts his sunglasses to get a better look, but I yank my arm away, feeling like a new recruit and stubbornly wanting to earn my keep, even though we’re all volunteers.
“I’m fine.” I lace my fingers behind my back, gritting my teeth against the sting of tender skin.
To my surprise, he tugs at the fingers of his leather glove, one by one, then takes it off and hands it to me.
I pass it right back. “I don’t want your sweaty glove.”
“It will protect you better than those cheap fabric ones they bought in bulk for the volunteers.”
“Then it’s hardly fair that I get a better deal.”
He rolls his eyes. It’s pretty cute, to be honest. “I don’t have enough for everyone. Not that anyone else would want to wear my gloves.”
“We have that in common, then, because no way am I putting my fingers in those sweat-soaked gloves. Is leather even washable?”
He glares at me, blue eyes icy, but finally relents and walks off toward the tree line at the back of the property, shaking his head.
Riley lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and I turn toward her. “Would you have worn them?”
She shrugs. “Bodily fluids don’t really give me the ick. Now, don’t get me started on the texture of mushy grapes. But sweat? I wouldn’t be in the right profession if I minded a little perspiration. We should probably grab a sandwich, though, or we’ll be left with tuna salad.”
At the tent, she gets pulled into conversation by another volunteer, and I grab a sandwich and chips and eat in the shade with a few others, then toss out my trash. Realizing I misplaced my gloves, I go to fetch a new pair.
A shadow falls over me. I look up to find Gavin standing there with his arms full of what looks like laundry. “What’s all that?”
