Page 16 of Rush Turner
I didn’t look back as I slipped inside. I didn’t want to see his face — didn’t want to see what he saw inme.I stopped and said goodnight to Aunt Marie. She would be talking to a realtor the next day.
The next morning
A shriek jolted me awake. I bolted upright in bed, my hair sticking up in every direction.
Aunt Marie’s voice floated up from the kitchen: “Jessa! You need to come down herenow!”
Heart hammering, I ran down the steps barefoot and found Aunt Marie in the middle of the kitchen, mopping up water spraying wildly from under the sink.
“I think we have a busted pipe!” she said over the hiss and splatter. “Do you know who to call?”
I grabbed my phone, mind racing. Rush’s number was still fresh in my call log, I added it last night. Before I could second-guess myself, I hitdial.
He answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Songbird. Everything okay?”
I swallowed my embarrassment. “Not really. Can you… do you know how to fix a pipe?”
He chuckled. “Lucky for you, I do. I’ll be there in twenty.”
12
Jessa
Rush didn’t bother knocking. He strode in as if he had lived there — which, as it turned out, he had.
At that moment, I didn’t know. All I saw was a man in worn jeans and a black shirt, toolbox swinging at his side, confidence in every step.
He paused in the doorway to the kitchen, took in the puddle and Aunt Marie swatting at the spray with an old dish towel.
“Morning, ladies,” he drawled, amusement flickering in his eyes when he met mine. “Pipe’s still giving you hell?”
“You could say that,” I muttered, pushing wet hair off my forehead. “It’s all yours.”
Rush set down his toolbox, dropped to one knee, and got to work. He moved so easily, like he knew exactly where everything was under that sink — which made sense, but not to me yet.
While he worked, Aunt Marie leaned in, whispering behind her hand, “He’s handsome. And handy. Don’t let that one get away, dear.”
I shushed her, cheeks flaming. “Aunt Marie, please—”
Rush twisted something, and the spraying water stopped with a final hiss. He sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a rag, then turned to look around the kitchen slowly.
His eyes lingered on the window over the sink, the old built-in shelves. There was something soft in his expression — not quite a smile, not quite sadness.
“You all settled in?” he asked, voice oddly quiet.
“Almost,” I said. “Still some boxes left. But the kids love it. It feels… safe here. Like it’s always been ours.”
His eyes flicked to mine. He swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, it would feel that way. I grew up in this house.”
My breath caught. “What?”
Rush pushed to his feet, bracing a hand on the counter like he needed the steadiness. He gave a soft, incredulous laugh.
“My dad built this place. We raised goats out back, too. I slept in that room—” he pointed down the hallway toward where Joanie was playing music, “—until I was seventeen. Then I joined the Navy and never really came back.”
