1
Alyssa
It’s a good thing I’m not afraid of hard work.
Hernias however, yeah, I’m a little afraid of them and that’s pretty much what I’m about to give myself as I lift the last fruit tree into the back of my beat-up work trailer. Do they have to weigh five billion pounds? Okay, maybe that’s exaggerating, but who needs to hit the gym when they’re a landscaping artist? I’m getting muscles on my muscles and that is such a lovely look for a twenty-five-year-old woman. I snort. Like there are any hot guys in this small Vermont town worth dating, anyway. All my friends—old boyfriend included—took off for college, or bigger and better. Me? I went to our local community college and studied landscaping design. I’m here for the long haul, even though six months of the year it’s freezing cold and not good for a person who beautifies and redesigns yards for a living. But moving away is out of the question.
I close the trailer gate and the hinges squeal in protest. As I make a mental note to lubricate them when I get home, I wipe the perspiration from my forehead with gloved hands. A car horn beeps and I wave to my neighbor as he drives by. Old man Landry has been trying to set me up with his grandson, who works on Wall Street in New York. But I’m just a small-town girl and that’s a whole different world for me. I sigh, tug off my gloves, and pull my phone from my back pocket to check the time.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble under my breath. Loading all those plants took longer than anticipated. My buddy Eli, who usually helps me with this task—and hires me in the winter during my dead time—is out sick, and everyone else was too busy with other customers. I move a little faster. No way can I be late.
Mrs. Henderson asked me to be there before eleven—before she had to leave for her spa treatment—and wants to talk to me regarding some landscaping changes. She’s highly regimented, cranky on the best of days, and does not tolerate tardiness for any reason. I can’t lose this gig. Not if I want to keep a roof over my head, food in my cupboard, and continue to pay for my ailing grandmother’s care.
I step off the curb in our one-horse town, meaning all the businesses line Main Street, everything from Greenleaf Landscaping, Foodland groceries, to Café Coco. If you need it, you can find it.
I slide into the driver’s seat, press down on the clutch, and turn the ignition over. The car in front of me parked a little too close to my old truck—yeah, I probably should have retired her years ago—and since I don’t want a fender bender, considering I have the barest of insurance, I put my vehicle in reverse, and start to back up. But suddenly I lurch forward, my head hitting the steering with an undignified bang.
Wincing, I put my fingers to my head, and lightly touch the lump already forming. Nausea wells up inside my stomach and the world spins around me as I put my truck into first, set the parkin break, and turn it off.
“What the hell?” I lift my eyes to my rearview mirror and spot a guy jumping from his car, which looks a heck of a lot older than my vehicle, but thanks to duct tape and prayers, my girl is still road worthy.
Someone yanks on my door but it doesn’t open. Why would it? This guy doesn’t know Moxie’s tricks—yes, I call my truck Moxie, because she’s tough and tenacious, and will not go down without a fight. Plus, why would she open for him when he just rear-ended us? That is no way to treat a lady.
Wait, maybe that didn’t come out right.
“Are you okay?” the guy asks. He tugs on the door a few more times, but his efforts prove fruitless. “I can’t get your door open.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to handle her,” I mutter, and wait for my brain to stop spinning.
“What?”
“Never mind. Hang on.” I take two deep breaths and when I’m no longer seeing triple, I reach for the door handle and yank it upward, giving it just the right amount of pressure to release the latch. The door opens and the next thing I know a man is leaning into me and I’m staring into the darkest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Holy crap. Talk about swoon worthy. Then again it’s possible my vision is simply wobbly because I’m close to fainting—the possibility of a concussion and all. Still though, his big brown eyes are like a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and the specks, like mini marshmallows, if they were gold, of course.
“Are you okay?” he asks, worry in those eyes as they move over my face with real concern.
“I banged my head.”
“We need to get you to the clinic.”
“Oh, hell no,” I say, not only because I don’t need a big medical bill, but because I need to get to Mrs. Henderson’s house like five minutes ago. He opens his mouth to protest but I speak first. “Is there much damage to my trailer?” I put one leg out, and push from my seat, but when I do, I sway a bit.
“Whoa,” he says and wraps strong arms around my waist. “You okay?
“Just give me a minute.” I let him hold me for a second longer, but only because I’m dizzy. It has nothing at all to do with the nice way his hard chest is pressing against mine or the way his strong arms are so sure and supportive. Yeah, nothing to do with those sweet sensations coursing through my body at all.
Good God, I am so pathetic.
“I’m okay,” I say and reluctantly escape the circle of his arms. He follows me to the back of my vehicle, and I examine the dent in my trailer. No big deal. The lights are still intact, which means it’s drivable, so I’m good to go, and go I must. I turn to look at his car, and there is a nice buckle to his bumper.