Page 6 of Love Takes A Tumble
Audrey's gaze remained fixed on the inn's white clapboard exterior. "Says the professional helper." There was a hint of a smile in her voice. "I'm not used to needing assistance."
"Sometimes we all do." The words came out softer than he'd intended.
She turned to him then, her green eyes direct. "Thank you for the ride, Harrison. And for... everything else."
"You're welcome, Audrey."
As he helped her navigate the inn's porch steps, crutches awkwardly balanced under her arms, he realized with a start that for the first time in months, he'd gone hours without that hollow feeling in his chest. Without wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with himself now.
Maybe there was something to be said for having a problem to solve. Even if that problem was a stubborn librarian with an injured ankle and a story to tell.
Chapter Three
Audrey stared at the mess of dropped papers surrounding her desk chair, frustration tightening her chest. Two days of hobbling around on crutches had left her with sore underarms, a bruised ego, and the vague suspicion that inanimate objects were conspiring against her. The desk drawer that refused to open fully. The book that had somehow migrated just beyond her reach. And now her carefully organized research notes scattered across the floor like autumn leaves.
"Absolutely perfect," she muttered, leaning her crutches against the wall to attempt a retrieval. Awkwardly lowering herself, she managed to snag one page before losing her balance and nearly tumbling sideways. She caught herself on the edge of the desk, wincing as her ankle protested the sudden movement.
Independence had never been this difficult before. Growing up as the dutiful daughter, then spending decades caring for her increasingly demanding mother, Audrey had prided herself on her self-sufficiency. Yet here she was, defeated by a handful of papers and a drawer that stuck.
A knock on her door interrupted her frustrated thoughts.
"Yes?" she called, hastily pulling herself upright, determined not to be caught in such an undignified position.
The door opened to reveal Harrison, a fresh ice pack in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. "Thought you might need a refresh," he said, lifting the ice pack. His gaze moved from her flushed face to the scattered papers. "Bad timing?"
"I dropped a few things," she said stiffly. "Nothing important."
Harrison set the ice pack on the dresser and the bag beside it. "Need a hand?" he asked, already crouching to gather the fallen pages.
"That's really not—" Audrey began, but he was already collecting them, arranging them into a neat stack with efficient movements. The ease with which he solved her immediate problem was simultaneously irritating and touching.
"Character notes?" he asked, glancing briefly at the page on top.
Audrey felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Yes. For my lighthouse keeper."
Harrison handed her the stack with a small smile that softened the rugged lines of his face. "Sounds like an interesting guy. Haunted by the past, if I caught that right."
"Something like that." She took the papers, oddly self-conscious. Her protagonist was indeed haunted by regret. By choices unmade, and by the life he might have lived. Though she'd die before admitting it had become something of a self-portrait.
"Brought you some of Miss Doris's peanut butter cookies," Harrison said, nodding toward the paper bag. "She insisted they have medicinal properties."
"That's very kind," Audrey said, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, how the morning sunlight caught the silver at his temples. "Thank you."
"Ice pack and cookies. All part of the rescue service." His tone was light, but something in his eyes made her breath catch.
"I don't need rescuing," she said automatically.
"Course not." He moved toward the door. "But everybody needs cookies. Even self-sufficient authors with sprained ankles."
As the door closed behind him, Audrey found herself staring at the spot where he'd stood, the papers clutched against her chest, her heart beating a rhythm that had nothing to do with her recent exertion and everything to do with the warmth that had spread through her at his matter-of-fact kindness.
The most irritating part wasn't that she needed help. It was how much she'd started looking forward to him offering it.
By late afternoon, Audrey had managed to make her way downstairs, a messenger bag slung across her body containing her laptop and notes. She navigated the stairs carefully on her crutches, pausing at each step to ensure her balance. The parlor offered more breathing room than her suite, and she'd begun to feel like a prisoner in her own room. The change of scenery, she told herself, was purely practical. It had nothing to do with being in a place where certain helpful former firefighters might pass by.
She settled into the window seat, arranging her injured ankle on a cushion and extracting her materials from the bag. The warm afternoon light spilled across the polished wood floors, and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains. It was the perfect setting for writing, yet the cursor on her screen blinked accusingly, her protagonist's dilemma suddenly as intractable as her own.
"Ah, there you are!"
