Page 26 of The Parent Playbook
“Come on, Lil. Let’s go work on my treehouse before the sun goes down. Your dad will be busy helping my mom, anyway.” Andy bolts, but Lil hesitates, her gaze shifting to me.
“What’s up, Lil?” I ask. She’s got something on her mind, but I can’t tell what.
She bites her lip, seeming to wrestle with a question or a decision. After a second, though, she shakes her head. “Never mind,” she mumbles, then hurries after Andy, who’s already halfway to the treehouse they’ve been hammering together bit by bit.
What was that about?
Shaking off the mystery, I reopen my folder, the daunting stack of paperwork waiting. Scotty’s truck might be a welcome sound later, but for now, I’ve got these forms and a festering worry about our water systems that won’t quite go away.
And there it is, tires on gravel heading this way.
Don’t smile, Angel. Don’t smile like a lovestruck clown.
I’m smiling.
The engine cuts and silence floods back over the ranch, but a ridiculous flutter kicks up in my stomach.
Scotty hops out, a grin plastered on his face and a wrench spinning in his hand like he’s some sort of Wild West gunslinger. He catches my eye and tips his Stetson. “Ma’am, heard tell there’s a mean ol’ septic system needs tamin’. Figured I’d mosey on over and give it a what for.”
I groan and shake my head, but it’s more endearing than a troupe of baby ducks.
He joins me on the porch, where my battle with municipal codes and environmental regulations has laid siege across the table.
“Ready to dive into the trenches, or should I saystenches?” he asks, nodding toward the yard where the real work awaits.
“Lead the way, Sheriff,” I reply, scooping up the plans and following him to where the ground has been marked for digging.
Between setting up the tools and going over the details of the septic repair, my frustrations fade into the background. Instead, there’s this easy camaraderie that seems to spring up whenever Scotty’s around.
We fall into a rhythm, passing tools back and forth. “So, what’s worse,” I ask as I hand him a shovel, “dealing with frozen pipes in the dead of winter or wrestling with rebel septic tanks in the fall?”
“Oh, definitely the septic tanks,” he replies without missing a beat. “At least the pipes have the decency to freeze quietly. These tanks, they make a stink about everything.”
I snort, shaking my head as I dig in alongside him. “You’re terrible.”
“And yet, here you are, laughing at my terrible jokes.”
He’s not wrong.
As we take a break from the grunt work of digging and fixing, leaning against the barn with water bottles in hand, I bring up last night’s VidHits revelation.
“So, I watched that viral chancla video you mentioned,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Pretty impressive aim those moms have.”
Scotty laughs, his eyes lighting up. “Told you! Those chanclas come with homing devices, I swear.”
“Naw, us ladies have good aim. I reckon I could knock anything off your head with my boot. Just as good as any chancla.”
His eyebrows shoot up as a playful grin spreads across his face. “Is that so? Care to prove it, sharpshooter?”
Before I know it, Scotty’s placing an empty water bottle atop his head, standing with a mock-serious expression, hands by his sides. “All right, Annie Oakley, let’s see what you’ve got.”
I hesitate for a split second—am I really about to throw my boot at this man? But the impish spark in his eyes is too much to resist. I slip off my boot, balance it in my hand, and toss it gently.
It spins through the air, perfectly knocking the bottle off without so much as grazing his hair.
Scotty applauds. “Nice shot! But was it luck or skill?”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
