Page 40 of Buried Roots

The back wall comes down, and Owen and I work in the blazing sun as we haul heavy boards and debris to the dumpsters. After we’ve unloaded our wheelbarrow, Owen flashes me a mischievous smile and puts his arm around my waist, ready to pull me in for a kiss.

Without thinking, I lean away.

His face puzzles.

I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not ready to address everything that is going on with me—not in the middle of work.

With a teasing flicker in his eyes, he says, “Is this because you found out my sisters call me Bambi?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No, although it didn’t help.” I touch his shoulder. “I’m kidding. Sort of.” I shrug when I say, “Just… not around the guys.”

“We can duck behind the dumpster. I’ve never done it before. Romantic, no?” He winks.

“Hard pass,” I say, trying not to chuckle. Owen has already started chipping away at my resolve, and we’ve been only together for a few hours. Of course, kissing him behind the dumpster sounds exciting, but I take off my gloves and knock them together to get the dust out, avoid his gaze. “I prefer romantic interludes with a less putrid stench. But that’s just me.” I try to sound teasing, but I’m not really pulling it off. I can’t kiss Owen, not now—not after everything I saw Saturday night.

He studies my face, like he’s trying to read me. “All right.”

“You’re just trying to get out of work.”

We head back to a pile of trim boards to pull out the old nails so we can reuse the boards as a part of the restoration. Again, it’s not a particularly fun job, so Owen and I are on our hands and knees as we pull rusty nails out with the flip side of our hammers. I show Owen which boards can be salvaged, as some are too cracked, but some can be glued. After that, feeling ripped up inside, I go quiet as we work. When I wasn’t with him these last few days, I was all set to stay away. But when he’s here, helping me, looking at me with that smile and those eyes, my willpower crumbles like the walls around us.

Finally, Owen says, “Is everything okay?”

“Fine.” I force a smile, which I’m sure Owen sees through. But there are workers around us, and this isn’t the time or place to get into it all.

Owen puts down the board he’s working on. “You’re distant.”

I take my pliers and nudge out a nail to keep my hands busy. “I’m just stressed about kicking off the house renovation. There’s so much to do, and I have such a short amount of time to get it done.”

“That’s understandable,” he says, but something in his tone tells me he doesn’t believe me. And he shouldn’t.

We get back to work, and when I reach into the pile for another board, something pierces my arm, right above the glove, and I jerk away. My arm’s bleeding, a shard of glass sticking out of it. “Dammit.” Automatically, I yank the piece away, and the cut streams blood.

“Whoa, Willow! You’re not supposed to do that.” Owen yanks off his shirt and rushes over, wrapping it around my arm. “Come and have a seat.” He points to an overturned bucket.

“Whoops. Too late.” It’s hurting, but more than that, it’s bleeding… a lot. “I’m fine,” I say. I can’t believe I was so careless. I rarely get hurt on the job, but Owen has me distracted.

He lifts his shirt to examine the cut. “It’s deep—you’re gonna need stitches. Do you want to go to the emergency room, or do you want me to do it?”

“You.” I don’t hesitate.

“Okay, hold my shirt tightly against the cut, and don’t move—I’ll go get my kit. We’re lucky that it was glass and not a rusty nail.” He sprints off.

Jeb, who does woodwork and brought his team here today to help, wanders over. “You okay there, New York?”

“I’m good. Owen’s going to stitch me back up,” I say, not wanting him and his team handling me instead of the renovation.

When Owen returns, he opens his medical kit out and cleans my cut. Then he takes out a vial and needle. “I’m going to give you a localized anesthetic for the pain, okay? You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

“Nope. Go ahead.” He takes my arm and rubs it in various places while he pokes in the needle. I don’t know how he does it, but I feel nothing. He’s got that magic touch.

After a beat, he says, “I’m ready to stitch you up. You might want to look away.”

“Yup.” I’m not going to argue—I don’t want to make myself feel worse. I’m already lightheaded, probably from skipping breakfast this morning.

I turn my head and proceed to feel tiny twinges and pinches, but it’s mild. I focus on the calm lake in the distance as I take gulps of fresh air. Owen’s voice is gentle when he says, “All done with stitching. You only needed four. After I bandage it, you’ll be good to go.”

“Wow, that was quick and painless.”

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