Shaking her head slightly, as if to clear it of the memories, she blinked several times before turning her attention to me and changing the subject. “So, what is this place?”
“It’s eighteen acres that include a pond and three structures.” I knew that wasn’t what she was asking, but I gave her the same description that the realtor had given me and, since she was on need-to-know status, there was no reason to elaborate.
“Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes. “But what is it?”
My right brow lifted. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
“She had four brothers and raised eight sons. Dolly Briggs does not shock easily.” Her green eyes danced with humor before growing more intent. “But stop trying to change the subject. What is this place? Why are we here? How is this considered community service?”
I decided to invoke my right to remain silent.
Unfazed by my lack of participation in this inquiry, she continued her barrage of questions. “Why am I here on clean up duty? Why are you on renovation duty? Why are we…” Her voice trailed off as her head swiveled around and she surveyed the porch. “Wait a minute, did you do all of this while I was cleaning out the barn?”
I answered with a nod.
“Holy shit! That was fast.” Her hand ran along the new planks of wood she sat on as her face transformed to a look of awe. “I think I had hunger induced blinders on the second I saw the food. The craftsmanship is so…it’s so beautiful.”
Just like with her assessment of the sandwich, a totally unjustifiable swell of gratification rose up in me. “The frame was good, I just had to replace a few boards and reinforce the railing. I still have a lot to do. I need to get back to it.”
To illustrate my point, I started collecting the trash so that I could cut this lunch short. Thinking that I could spend thirty minutes with this woman and not fall deeper under her spell was more than just wishful thinking on my part—it was insanity.
“Wow. You are really bad at taking a compliment.” She let out a puff of air and began crumpling up a used napkin. “That is probably why you’re so bad at giving them.”
The word smart-ass was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept it there. The less interaction we had, the better. I needed to keep our conversations to a minimum, which meant I needed to come up with some reason why we couldn’t have lunch together the days we were out here. That might take some creative thinking and chances were, she’d be pissed about it. But the alternative was worse.
The more time Harmony and I spent together, the less I trusted myself. My hard-earned self-control about to break like a wishbone in the center of a tug-of-war between The Hulk and Thor. And the reasons why absolutely nothing—under any circumstances—could happen between us were disappearing faster than a watermelon under Gallagher’s sledgehammer.
After clearing her throat, her tone was the epitome of professionalism as she spoke. “The correct response when someone says something nice to you is, ‘thank you.’ The incorrect response is to explain why they are wrong and then deflecting.”
“Is that what four years of psych taught you?” I grinned.
Her mouth dropped open slightly and shock registered in her gaze before her eyes narrowed. “No. Four years of psych and one year of researching my Master’s thesis taught me that you have intimacy issues and a Superman complex.”
“Is that a clinical term?”
“Actually, it is. And you are text book.” Lifting her hand she started counting on her fingers as she listed, “Unhealthy sense of responsibility. The belief that everyone else lacks the capacity to successfully perform tasks. The constant need to ‘save’ others—”
As much as I didn’t appreciate being analyzed, it did solve one issue. I was no longer standing at attention, and my zipper was no longer being branded onto my rock-hard shaft.
“Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Phil.”
The corners of her lips turned up and she pitched the ball of used paper towel straight at my chest.
I snagged it before it made contact. “I guess JJ’s not the only one with a good arm.”
Harmony’s brother, and one of my closest childhood friends, JJ had been a major-league pitcher until last summer. After suffering an injury and going through Tommy John surgery he’d come home for a “visit” over the fourth of July. I still didn’t know all the details of what went down over that forty-eight hour period he was back in Wishing Well, but a month later he’d retired and come home with his sights set on Harmony’s best friend Destiny. They were married within weeks of his homecoming, and she was currently overdue with the baby that they joked would have the middle name “fireworks” because of when he or she was conceived.