Head Over Heels. Gail Sattler

      Russ smiled at Marielle’s laugh. It was warm, genuine and simply made him feel good for being the one to make her happy.

      But with his carefree smile on the outside, his heart was pounding on the inside.

      The waiter came with their meals, though all Russ could do was watch her as she ate.

      He was enjoying himself way too much, proving that it had been way too long since he’d been out on a date.

      Except this wasn’t a date. This was work.

      Although if it was work, he was having way too much fun.

      GAIL SATTLER

      lives in Vancouver, British Columbia (where you don’t have to shovel rain), with her husband of twenty-seven years, three sons, two dogs, five lizards, one toad and a degu named Bess. Gail loves to read stories with a happy ending, which is why she writes them. Visit Gail’s Web site at www.gailsattler.com.

      Head Over Heels

      Gail Sattler

      However, as it is written, “No eye has seen, no ear

       has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him.”

      —1 Corinthians 2:9

      To Tim, my favorite Web designer

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      Chapter One

      The cell phone rang from the passenger seat.

      Marielle glanced at the display to see that it was one of the youth group members calling. It was also 2:49 p.m., which was a mere four minutes after the students were dismissed for the day. “Not now, Brittany,” she muttered as she rammed her foot on the brake pedal to avoid a man who was jay-walking, or rather jay-running, across the street. As soon as the man was out of her path, Marielle picked up speed to the snail’s pace of the rest of the downtown traffic.

      The phone stopped ringing, but only for as long as it took Brittany to redial.

      “This better be important,” Marielle grumbled as she turned out of traffic and into the nearest driveway—the entrance leading to an older complex with main-level parking, and a small office building above.

      Carefully, she pulled in and stopped, leaving enough room that someone who needed to get into the parking area could pass her. She reached for the still-ringing phone and hit the talk button, but before she could say hello, a deafening bang sounded above her head.

      Marielle dropped the phone. Instinctively, she ducked and covered her head with her arms. She waited for more—for the car to shake, for the crash of more to hit the car, for a hail of debris to fall around her.

      But all was silent.

      With her arms still sheltering her head, she peeked up at the ceiling of her car. The center was heavily dented. A groan of stressed metal signified a movement above, and a man’s body rolled off the roof and landed limply on the hood.

      On impact his eyes fluttered open. For a split second she made eye contact with the man through the windshield. A combination of pain, shock and confusion showed in his face. Then his eyes drifted shut.

      Marielle could barely pick up the phone, her hands were shaking so badly. After three jabs she managed to hit the end button on Brittany without speaking to her, then poked out 9-1-1. “A man just landed on the roof of my car!” she yelled to the operator. “I’m at the complex on 5th and Main! Send an ambulance!” Without waiting for a reply, she threw the phone onto the seat.

      Marielle pushed the door, but it wouldn’t open. Instead of wasting time fighting with it, she scrambled out the window. As her feet touched the ground, people began to gather around her car.

      The man lay sprawled on the hood, still on his stomach, not moving. His arms and legs didn’t seem to be at odd angles, which Marielle thought was probably a good sign. She didn’t see blood gushing from anywhere except his nose. She supposed this was also a good sign.

      She could detect labored breathing from the movement of his chest beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

      She focused on controlling her voice to sound as calm as possible, even though her heart was racing and her chest was so tight she could barely breathe. “Can you speak?” she asked, looking into his face, hoping she would be able to tell if he was alert. As she spoke, his eyes opened, but they didn’t look right.

      Her first impulse was to hold one finger up and see if he could focus on it, not that she would know what to do after that.

      The man tensed slightly, as if he wanted to push himself upward but couldn’t. His whole body went completely limp, and his head lay heavily on the hood. His eyes turned to her—haunted eyes—but Marielle doubted that he really saw her.

      “Why?” he moaned. His eyes rolled back, and he passed out.

      Marielle froze. She knew that someone involved in an accident was supposed to kept still and calm until the professionals arrived.

      She looked up, as if judging how far he’d fallen would help her figure out what to do.

      A woman’s head poked out of the third-floor window directly above them.

      “Help us!” Marielle called out.

      The woman’s head disappeared quickly inside without her acknowledging what had happened.

      Marielle returned all her attention to the injured man. Trying to be gentle, but firm, Marielle pressed her hands into the center of his back to steady him so he wouldn’t have a second fall, this time from the hood of her car onto the cement driveway.

      “Does anyone know what to do?” she called out over her shoulder to the people that had gathered around her car. “Is there anyone here with any first-aid training?”

      Everyone backed up.

      A siren finally sounded in the distance. Marielle turned back to the man. She could only think of one thing to do until the ambulance arrived, and that was to pray for him.

      Just in case he moved, she kept her eyes open while she spoke.

      “Dear Lord,” she prayed softly, so only the man and God could hear. She looked at his face, a face she knew would haunt her dreams for a long time to come. “Please help this man to live. Please love him and touch him and be with him as You heal whatever injuries he has. Please guide the doctors and nurses, and just make him all better. Amen.”

      A small group of people ran out of the building. “Russ! Russ!” one of the men called out.

      Just then the ambulance arrived. The attendants shooed away everyone but Marielle, instructing her to steady the man while