Page 16 of Sunshine and the Grumpy Groundskeeper
"I know." The words come out softer than I intend. I clear my throat. "Go do whatever it is you do in the mornings. Chase butterflies. Interview squirrels. I've got this."
She disappears inside, but moments later, the cabin door opens again. "I brought you coffee. And company."
Rascal bounds out to supervise my work, his purple sweater slightly askew. The coffee, when I take it, is exactly how I like it. Black, no sugar. I have no idea how she knows that.
"The shutter's not the only thing that needs attention," she says, settling on the porch steps with her ever-present notebook. "The screen door sticks sometimes, and there's this weird creaking sound when?—"
"Why didn't you tell the front desk any of this?"
She shrugs, suddenly very interested in her coffee cup. "I told you. I didn't want to be a bother."
Something in her tone makes me really look at her. "Who made you feel like you were a bother?"
"What? No one. I just..." She traces the rim of her cup. "My ex used to say I was too much. Too chatty, too dreamy, too..."
"Too what?"
"Impractical." She attempts a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "He said my writing was just a hobby I needed to grow out of."
My hands tighten on my tools. "Sounds like a fool."
That startles a real laugh out of her. "Rowan Callahan, did you just defend my impracticality?"
"No." I focus on the shutter, ignoring how her laugh warms something in my chest. "I just hate people who dim other people's light."
The words slip out before I can stop them. When I glance back, she's watching me with an expression that makes it hard to breathe.
"I'm going to check that screen door," I say quickly. "And then you're going to tell me about every single thing that needs fixing. No more soup ladle repairs."
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” she asks.
"The only adventure you need right now is learning to file a maintenance request," I grumble, testing the door's hinges, too aware of her presence behind me. "Like a normal person."
"Where's the fun in that?" Her voice is closer now, and I can smell her jasmine shampoo. "Normal is boring."
"Normal keeps you from falling off chairs while attacking shutters with kitchen utensils."
"You're kind of sweet, you know that?"
I fumble my screwdriver. "I'm practical."
"Mhmm." I can hear the smile in her voice. "That's why you carved little animals into my trail markers?"
"I didn't—that's not—" I turn to find her grinning at me. "Those are standard trail blazes."
"With tiny rabbits and deer worked into the designs? Very standard."
"Do you want your door fixed or not?"
She mimes locking her lips, but her eyes are dancing with mirth. I turn back to my work, trying to ignore how the morning sun catches the gold in her hair, how her presence makes the air feel charged with possibility.
The door doesn't really need much work. I find myself checking everything anyway—the hinges, the latch, the weather stripping. Anything to stay in her orbit a little longer.
"There," I say finally, running out of things to fix. "Try it now."
She does, the door opening smoothly. "My hero," she says again, but this time it's soft, sincere.
"Just doing my job." But I'm still standing too close, still caught in the gravity of her smile.
