Small-Town Bachelor. Jill Kemerer

He sounded hoarse. “Come here a minute.”

      She moved to his side, her pulse racing. Why did her skin feel prickly all of a sudden?

      He took her hand, his thumb rubbing over her hers. “Can you stay awhile?”

      “Yes.” Her voice sounded like a tiny mouse’s, if tiny mice could speak.

      “Good.”

      For a split second, she thought he might want to kiss her.

      She wanted him to kiss her.

      “Tell me what’s going on with the town cleanup.” He let her hand drop.

      She blinked. See? He didn’t want to kiss her. Just helping the town. Nothing more.

      Claire crossed to the chair, a safe distance from him but close enough they could chat with ease. “Not much. The insurance adjuster hasn’t been out to Uncle Joe’s yet. On Sunday, a bunch of people cleared the street downtown to be drivable, but other than tarps covering a few houses, nothing is happening.”

      “We need to change that.” His tone went from smooth to brisk. She liked smooth better. “Do you have a paper and pen? If we’re going to get this town restored, I have questions to be answered.”

      “Really?” She scurried to the kitchen for pen and paper. When she returned, she clicked the pen, preparing to write. “What do you want to know?”

      “What stores would you say need the most work?”

      She thought a moment and listed the ones she could think of. “Let me call Dad. He knows more than I do.” Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she dialed his number. “Dad? Reed and I are making a list of all the stores destroyed—”

      “Good idea. I’ll be right there.” He hung up before she could respond.

      She shrugged, smiling at Reed. “Dad’s on his way.”

      The corner of his mouth twisted. “You mean I don’t get you all to myself?”

      All to himself? Claire widened her eyes and shrugged.

      Then he grinned. “Your dad’s great. I want to make as many calls as possible before I leave next week.”

      And just like that, her spirits dropped to the floor. Next week would be here before she knew it, and playing with temptation had burned her twice before. Not this time.

      * * *

      Five more minutes. Five minutes and he was sawing the cast off. He’d use a butter knife if he had to.

      Reed gripped the arms of the wheelchair. The itch in his leg permeated his thoughts. A thin branch taunted from the limb overhanging the deck. If Reed went outside and snapped the twig, he’d jam it in his cast and scrape his leg until no skin remained.

      Fridays were supposed to be good days. Fun days. But after two hours of studying the weekly report he would be in charge of as vice president, he’d almost fallen asleep of boredom. So he’d switched gears, making phone calls to local business owners, construction crews and even two insurance adjusters. Right up his alley. But, with nothing more to do, Reed had thumbed through every magazine in the cottage. Knew all the summer fashions. Skimmed the bookcases and learned about the war of 1812. Memorized the capitals of the fifty states. The television bored him. Inactivity? A cruel, cruel fate.