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“Not a cook, huh?”
“I am, actually. I just didn’t want to make a mess in your place. It looked so clean.” She’s keeping her distance, not crossing the clearing as she hovers at the end of the path.
“Maggie, come see my hidey-hole.” Olive darts back across the clearing, catching Maggie’s hand and pulling her past me.
Maggie pauses, pulling the water bottle out of her pocket and holding it out to me. “Here. She was very concerned that you didn’t have any water.” She smiles indulgently at Olive, a look I know all too well. My daughter can be charming as fuck when she wants to be.
I take it and the sandwich bag, avoiding touching Maggie with my dirty hands. I don’t succeed though, and my fingers graze the back of Maggie’s. A zap of electricity shoots down my spine at the contact. Maggie must feel it too because she looks up at me, mouth open in a tiny gasp. I’m caught by her brown eyes and the question in them.
But Olive tugs on Maggie’s free hand again, pulling her toward the other end of the clearing. Maggie follows, her eyes locked on mine until she’s forced to look where she’s going, pulled on by my relentless offspring’s enthusiasm.
I suck down half the water in one go, half the sandwich gone in two bites. I was hungrier than I’d realized, and the other half of the sandwich disappears while Olive and Maggie chatter a few feet away. While she was “helping” me this morning, Olive piled some sturdy sticks against the side of a tree—a blanket of leaves beneath it—making a lean-to like Greg taught her. Now she and Maggie are curled up beneath it, having a whispered conversation about something in Olive’s hand.
The first time I saw Maggie, I was too concerned that she was going to make a tipsy mess of my grapes to notice her smile. Not that I had given her a reason to. My first impression of her had been colored by my own worry and frustration, none of which she appears to have deserved. Today she’s been nothing but professional. Between setting up for the party and making sure that the tasting room was put back the way it belongs, I can’t actually complain about her presence.
Which is leaving me far too much room to admire the curve of her ass in those jeans and the way a tendril of her brown hair has escaped the clip holding the rest of it back. Or how she keeps glancing my way, even as she’s listening to Olive.
Forcing myself to focus on something else, I grab the chainsaw and flip my safety glasses back on. My skin itches with the dust and dirt trapped beneath my shirt, but I don’t want Maggie thinking I’m putting on a show for her any more than I want to acknowledge my desire for her to think I am. I don’t bother going to the gym when my job keeps me in shape. Besides, the closest gym is a twenty-minute drive from here.
Just as I’m about to turn the chainsaw back on, there’s the sound of sticks collapsing and girls shrieking behind me. Dropping the saw, I hurry over to the heap of wood that used to be Olive’s lean-to. Branches are scattered around and on the girls, who haven’t moved. Olive is whimpering and Maggie looks dazed.
“Olive, are you okay?” I check my daughter first—her eyes are wide in shock and she doesn’t say anything, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. A giggle bubbles out of her after a long moment, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I never know if it’s going to be tears or giggles when one of her constructions goes wrong.
My smile drops the second I look over at Maggie. Her face is white as a sheet apart from the trickle of blood running down her temple, her bottom lip caught between her teeth like she’s trying not to make noise. Maybe it wasn’t Olive whimpering a second ago.
“Shiiiii—pyards.” Olive immediately stops giggling at my aborted curse. I drag my eyes away from Maggie so I can send her off in a way that’s helpful. “Olive, run up to the house and start looking for the first aid kit. We’ll be right behind you.” The last thing I need is Olive underfoot and feeling guilty while I assess the situation. “Leave it on the kitchen counter then go get Grandpa Greg. Got it?” Maggie is silent, her eyes glassy as she clutches at her ankle.
Olive nods before taking off up the hill to our cottage.
“Talk to me, Maggie.”
She has to clear her throat twice before she can speak, my stomach twisting each time. Now that Olive is gone, my worry about how badly she might be hurt eats at me.
“I fell over the ankle I twisted this morning—it hurts more now than it did before. And that big branch,” she tips her chin toward the thick branch that had been holding up the weight of the smaller branches, “caught my head as it fell.”
“Do you think you can stand up?” I push to my feet and offer my hand. Maggie eyes me warily for a moment, but I think it has more to do with her ankle than me. The dazed look is leaving her eyes, replaced by gathering tears. “Maggie?” I lower my voice this time, leaning closer.
She wipes a hand beneath her eyes quickly, then reaches out to take mine. “Sorry. I didn’t want Olive to feel bad, give me a second.”
I wait while she blows out a shaky breath and sniffs a few times. I lean a little closer. “If you can’t stand—”
“No, no. I can. Just give me a minute.” There’s a snap to her tone and she pulls her hand away from mine, so I back off. The itch beneath my shirt is distracting me, so I back up, pulling it off. Maggie makes a funny noise behind me as I snap the fabric in my hands. Bits of bark and dust fall from my shirt in a cloud.
Satisfied, I turn the sleeves right side out before pulling it back on. It’s not perfect, but the bits poking at my chest are gone. When my eyes meet Maggie’s, her cheeks have gone bright pink, her mouth a little open. I can’t help the grin that flashes across my face, or the way my chest puffs just a smidge.
I’ve overheard a thing or two from the groups of women around the winery—it’s why I stay away from the tasting room over the weekends—but Maggie appreciating my body hits differently. Maybe it’s because she’s trying not to. Or maybe it has something to do with the way I want to release her curled dark hair from that clip and watch it tumble down around her shoulders.
“You ready to try again?” I hate pushing her, but if she’s badly hurt we need to get back up to the cabins and the cars.
Maggie nods, holding out her hand. I grasp her wrist, my hand swallowing hers. She sets what I assume is her non-injured foot firmly on the ground and nods. As soon as she’s on her feet, her pale face goes even paler. I don’t wait for her permission and sweep her up in my arms. “Let’s go.”
I stride purposefully up the hill toward my home and Maggie doesn’t stop arguing with me the whole way.
“Put—put me down, Kel. I’m not some damned damsel in distress, I don’t need you to rescue me.”
“No. You looked ready to pass out. Stop wiggling.”
“But it’s a steep hill, you can’t carry me the whole way. Besides, I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
