Page 11 of Something Borrowed

Another beep.Dennis can bring it to your office. Easier than you driving to midtown.

Why did he assume she was working today? A small voice reminded her she had worked the past three Sundays to get ready for this week away and she had told him she was working, which had pissed him off. At least he was being polite and considerate of her time.

Fine. I’m leaving at ten.

He’ll be there at 9:30.

Brigid sighed, then glanced at the time. Shit. She only had an hour to get ready. Plenty of time to get an apology gift for Grady before her ferry, with some time left over to check on work.

* * *

Brigid stared at her desk, at the folders piled on there, loaded with sticky notes and a detailed list of everything that needed changing. Peterman must have reviewed everything and rushed it in, probably to ruin her vacation week. She picked up the top sheet.

Due Friday.

The words in big block lettering jumped out at her and slapped her in the face. How the hell was she supposed to get all of this done and back to the office by Friday? She would work almost the whole week just to get edited, digital copies sent out.

Caroline was going to be so pissed.

She glanced at her phone and saw a text message from Grady’s employee. He was downstairs with the lights. Dammit.

She scooped the papers into her briefcase and bolted downstairs to meet him. Happy vacation to her.

* * *

Grady centered the number plaque on the house to the right of the front door and placed the nail in the center. He hefted the hammer and slammed it down… right on his thumb. Pain shot through him and he dropped the hammer. The plaque and nail plunged to the porch floor, slamming his foot right where the wear and tear on the boot was the worst, offering little protection.

“Goddamnit!” He cradled his hand, rubbing it to take the sting out.

“Grady? What happened?”

A curvy brunette peered out the front door and laughed when she saw him hopping around. She came out on the porch, and he held up his hand, still swearing under his breath. She stifled her laughter when she saw his hand. She examined it, probing for pain and fractures.

“I think you’ll live. You didn’t hit it dead center. Now, sit down and take off that boot.” She pulled out a cane rocking chair and pushed him into it.

“I’m fine, Janine.” She gestured to the boot, and he slipped it off. He massaged the toes and wiggled them experimentally. “See, they’re fine.”

She pursed her lips and waved her hand. “Sock too.”

He grumbled but pulled it off. “See? Just red, but nothing’s broken.”

She leaned over it, her wavy dark hair brushing his foot. She gently probed the red and slightly swollen area, sending tingles up his leg that had nothing to do with the injury and everything to do with the woman touching his foot. She looked up at him expectantly, and he realized he had missed her words.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

She laughed, a deep throaty sound. “Maybe we should check you for a concussion. Everything seems fine, just bruised. I told you to replace those boots weeks ago. They’re almost falling apart.”

He glanced over at the beaten-up work boots and sighed. “They’re my favorite.”

She rocked back on her heels. “Time to let them go, cowboy.”

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around today,” he muttered, then shrugged when she stared at him. “You had to be there.”

She stood up, brushing off her pants. “I think it’s time for a break. I brought some lunch, enough for both of us, since you never eat. Hang on.”

She disappeared into the house and reappeared a few minutes later with a lunch bag. She tossed him a can of soda and pulled out two sandwiches. “Roast beef or tuna?”

He stared at her. “Seriously? No contest there.”

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