Until a few months ago Ethan might have agreed with her.
He’d embraced the long hours. The blare of sirens outside the hospital that jump-started a rush of adrenaline. The pressure of making split-second decisions that had the power to save a person’s life. Now he was trading in the challenge of a busy ER for a family practice in the sleepy little town where he’d grown up. A town with grass instead of concrete. Trees instead of skyscrapers.
Ethan lifted the shade that overlooked the backyard.
Lots of trees. Trees that dropped needles and leaves and pinecones.
He was beginning to wish Hollis and Connor had picked a day in December to get married. The number of tasks on Ethan’s to-do list suddenly seemed a lot longer than the number of days he had to accomplish them.
He skipped a shower, knowing he’d only have to take another one later, and extracted a T-shirt and his oldest pair of jeans from the suitcase.
A half hour later, armed with a cup of coffee and a bucket of sealer he hoped was just as strong, Ethan climbed the ladder he’d found in the shed. From the roof of the boathouse, he had an unobstructed view of the lake and the yard.
And trespassing reporters.
Mac was striding down the flagstone path to the water, camera in hand, clearly on a mission to take her photographs for the newspaper.
Ethan thought about calling her name, but he had a gut feeling that when it came to Mackenzie Davis, the element of surprise would only work in his favor.
Or not.
Because Mac suddenly veered off course and headed straight for the boathouse. The breeze toyed with a silky ribbon of mahogany hair that had already escaped the confines of her ponytail. In figure-hugging jeans, a plaid button-down shirt, and hiking boots, she looked more like a camp counselor than a journalist.
“What”—Mac parked her hands on her hips and glared up at him—“are you doing?”
Ethan grinned down at her. “Triage.”
“Triage,” Mac repeated.
“It’s when you assess a situation and choose the most—”
“I know what the word means. But you’re the one who’s going to need a doctor when you fall through that roof and break both your legs.”
Ethan didn’t look the least bit disturbed by the possibility. “The boards are only rotten in a few places.” He thumped one of the shingles with the heel of his shoe. “Hollis thought the boathouse would be a good place to set up the food for the reception.”
“It still doesn’t explain why you’re up there.”
Mac had set her alarm an hour early so she could take pictures of the venue and have them on Grant’s desk before he poured his first cup of coffee. And maybe to avoid Ethan.
Okay. Avoiding Ethan had been her main motivation.
Mac wasn’t sure what to expect when she’d cut through the trees between the two properties. Maybe a scene straight from Father of the Bride with a swarm of makeover bees already hard at work. Mowing the grass. Pulling weeds. Sculpting hedges into topiary swans.
The last thing she expected to see was Ethan standing on the roof of the boathouse. Alone. Looking like the cover model for the August edition of Outdoorsman Monthly in a T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and a pair of jeans so old they’d faded to a soft January blue.
And he healed people to boot.
Sometimes life just wasn’t fair.
Ethan swung down from the ladder and landed in front of her in one fluid motion. “I’m the one who’s going to fix it.”
“You’re telling me that you’re in charge of cleaning up the yard?” Mac couldn’t hide her confusion.
“Actually, I’m kind of in charge of everything.”
Everything. He had to be kidding.
“But . . . but what about Hollis? And your mom?”
“Mom started to take over and Hollis started to panic. When I mentioned I was going to meet with Dr. Heath, she decided the lake house would be the perfect place for her and Connor to exchange their vows. But they’ve been busy so I offered to help.”
Too busy to plan her own wedding? But then again, Hollis probably didn’t have to.
“At least she hired a wedding planner—” Mac stopped at the look on Ethan’s face. “She doesn’t have a wedding planner?”
“She and Connor want to keep things simple.”
Simple?
Simple didn’t sell newspapers.
Mac saw her chances of interviewing Senator Tipley slipping away.
Ethan frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“My editor wants to run a story in next week’s edition too. He’s expecting me to interview everyone connected with the wedding.”
“Like who?” The fact that Ethan seemed genuinely curious spiked another wave of panic.
“Like the florist. The . . . the penguin guy. The caterer.”
“You lost me at penguin.”
“He plays the violin,” Mac muttered.
“Do you know someone? I told Hollis I’d take care of the music too.”