Page 59 of Book and Ladder
I call over to Moss and Maple while the guys head to our bunks to change for workouts.
“Moss and Maple. How may I help you?” Daisy’s voice is kind and warm when she answers.
“Hi, Daisy. It’s me, Patrick.”
“Oh. Hi, Patrick.” The temperature of her voice shifts to subzero.
“I’m … uh … calling about the mix up in the shipments.”
“Oh. Yes. I was just going to put the box in my car and drive it over.”
“Is that what’s most convenient?” I ask.
“Is my convenience even on your radar—or your family’s?” Her tone is barely sharp this time. It’s heavier. Defeated. Like she’s already bracing for loss.
“It’s …” I start to answer her.
I don’t know what to say. I haven’t even fully processed my father’s plans yet. Besides, Daisy wouldn’t believe me if I told her how torn I’m feeling over the whole situation.
“I’ve got to run, Patrick. I’ll see you when I drop off the box. Or … not see you. You could just leave the books on the driveway.”
“I’ll see you,” I insist for some unknown reason.
“Great.” Her tone doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s great—at all.
There’s a click and I’m left holding the station phone to my ear. I set the handset in the cradle and walk to the bunks to change into my T-shirt and sweats for my workout.
I’m mid-set in my bench presses when Daisy shows up to the station, holding a box and peering into the workout room.
I set the bar on the rack and sit up, my legs straddling the bench. I grab my towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead before standing to walk over to her.
Her eyes flit to my chest, rove across my arms. With a nearly imperceptible shake of her head, she squares her shoulders and meets my gaze. There’s no denying she enjoys checking me out. And, considering the death glare she’s giving me, I’m not about to tease her about it.
I wish I could say something—anything—to let her know I’m not sold on my dad’s proposal. But nothing I say would quell her frustration, convince her of my predicament, or change the outcome—which we both know might mean a huge hit to her shop.
“Your books are over here,” I say, brushing past her as I walk toward the kitchen where I left them on the table.
She follows behind me. And I realize she’s still lugging the box of our restocks.
I stop dead in my tracks and she barrels into my back with an “Oof.”
“Sorry,” I turn around, staring down into her brown eyes. There’s a golden hue to them with the light shining in through the bay. “I just realized I should offer to carry the box of our supplies for you.”
“I’ve got it,” she says, backing up a step and waiting for me to resume walking to the kitchen.
“Daisy … I …”
“I just need to pick up the books, Patrick. Please. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Her eyes are missing that spark—that playful, cutting edge that usually slices me down to size. A cloud of heaviness shadows her features.
So, I walk to the kitchen, take the box out of her hands, and pick up her shipment of books.
“I’ll carry this out for you,” I say.
My tone must sound like I mean business, because she lets me.
I hate seeing her like this. There’s a sour taste in my mouth. I can’t blame her. My family is messing with her livelihood.
