The woman deserves a raise.
And a medal.
“Noah here, reporting for duty,” he says behind me as I push the start button. The bright side? The machine doesn’t explode like a nuclear warhead.
I turn to him. “Thanks for arranging for the unit. We might as well begin tossing the piles I’ve identified as trash into it. That will give me more room.”
“Sounds good. Where do you want me to start?”
I take him to the attic. My limp is more pronounced now than it was at the ranch, but Noah doesn’t say anything. I mentally thank him.
I flip on the light. The single bare bulb creates shadows in the dimly lit room. “Those piles are for the garbage bin.” I point to the stack of old papers, broken appliances, and clothes that had made for some very happy, chubby moths.
Then we get to work. Taking everything downstairs. Bit by bit.
“Does the name John Turnbull sound familiar to you?” I ask Noah as we walk up the attic stairs for what feels like the thousandth time in the past hour.
He thinks about it for a moment. “Can’t say it does. Why?”
“I’ve been reading love letters that he and Charlotte wrote to each other while he was serving in the military during the Korean War. The Thunderbird used to belong to him. According to the letters, they created some pretty steamy memories in the back seat.”
Noah laughs, the deep sound igniting something low in my belly. “You mean Charlotte and this John Turnbull fucked in the back seat?”
My face heats at the crass way he says it. “Yes, that’s one way to put it.”
That only makes him laugh harder. “I take it you’re not one for dirty talk during sex, Princess.”
“We’re not talking about my sex life, thank you.”
I pause at the top of the stairs, needing a moment to recover from the growing ache in my leg. It’s not used to all this up and down on the stairs.
“You okay?” Noah asks. Concern replaces the laughter in his voice—which for some reason warms me to my bones, even though it shouldn’t make a difference.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. My leg just needs to get used to working out on the stairs. But it will be better for it. Stronger. Faster. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
His lips twitch as he fights a laugh. “What do you usually do when your leg hurts?”
“Soak in the bathtub. But I’m fine now, so let’s get back to this.” I gesture to the pile that still needs to be tossed into the bin.
“I can do this while you’re in the bath. There’s no point making things worse by pushing too hard.”
“I’m fine, Noah. I’m not an invalid.” My tone holds a huffiness that isn’t normally there. My grandmothers taught me that pouting isn’t becoming.
Of course they also taught me that manual labor wasn’t becoming either—a sentiment that most of my friends share—so there’s always that.
“Never said you were. But we’re almost finished here, and I’m assuming you’ll want to shower before we head back to the ranch.” He lightly brushes his thumb against my cheek, causing my heart rate to spike.
“You have a bit of dust here.” His voice is low and gritty, and the warmth from a few minutes ago flares to something hotter.
My lips part slightly of their own accord. But just as I think he’s going to kiss me, he returns to the remaining stack of papers.
I will my pulse to return to normal before I have a heart attack or do something equally embarrassing—like spontaneously combust from his touch.
My leg sides with Noah, and the ache intensifies. Well, that just sucks.
“All right,” I say, doing my best to sound upbeat. “If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in the bathtub.”
While waiting for it to fill, I swallow a couple of pain meds from the medicine cabinet. The soothing aroma of clary sage wafts in the steam blanketing the room. I readjust my ponytail into a messy bun and slip into the water.
