The crackling paint is a dirty sky blue, so far from the deep blue of Winch's eyes, it seems impossible they're in the same color realm. No amount of scrubbing would get that paint out, and Gramma is completely perplexed about why I don't just toss them.
"Sweetie, they are useless. I wouldn't even want you to work in the garden in them." She shakes her head and clucks her tongue at the stain Winchester Yougblood delivered with his paint roller while I run a hand over that crackly blue dried paint and resist the urge to smile like a fool.
I pop a kiss on her cheek to hide my grin.
"Gramma, when do I ever work in the garden? I'm doing this community service thing for weeks, though. It's probably not a bad idea to have a pair of work pants for next time."
Even work demands style, as far as my Gramma is concerned.
"Bad enough they have you doing all that work when we pay taxes to feed and support the incarcerated while they laze around like they're living in the lap of luxury. They should be giving this heavy labor to the criminals and letting you kids volunteer with the arts or at schools or religious institutions. It's ridiculous. And if you have to go, you can at least look clean and neat."
Her silver bob sways forward and backward with her nod of conviction.
I put on a clean pair to mollify her, kiss her and Granddaddy, and fly to my car, ready for the day, eager as a kid at athe beach ignoring the burn of the hot sand on her feet in her haste to get to the waves.
Eager for a day of muscle-tiring, bone-deep, ache-inducing labor in some old dump.
With Winch.
Brenna texts me.
Brenna: Ready for your date with criminally hot McHottie?!?! Get it?! It's a pun! Get it?
Me: You're such a dork. And don't be a halfwit. I told you about the guy at the park.
Brenna: I can smell a lie, miss! Are you rushing to see him NOW? Sweaty palms? Butterflies in your stomach?
Me: Can't text. About to drive.
Brenna: LOL!! I KNEW IT!!
I pull in at the dilapidated building that is looking much less dilapidated with every hour of work we chisel into it, and I feel puffy-chested with pride. I'd accomplished things before; written papers, completed projects, aced exams. But I'd never worked with my hands, turning something ugly into something gorgeous using my own sweat and talent. Well, using a ton of criminals' sweat and my very limited-but-slowly-increasing talent.
When I walk in, the officer in charge, Officer Rannick, points me in the direction of one of the rooms we'd painted last week.
"They refinished the floors and the precinct had some file cabinets sent over. Unfortunately, they tipped some of the drawers out. They're letter labeled. You just need to fish though the files and put the correct ones in, back in order."
"Okay." So today will be an easy day compared to the grueling grind of last week. I go through the door and my eyes nearly evacuate their sockets. "Oh shi...z," I amend as Officer Rannick frowns.
"Go ahead. You can handle it."
She opens the door wider, and I stumble into a roaring, heaping, sliding typhoon of papers that goes up to my knees and has absolutely no rhyme or reason that I can decipher. My eyes race a circuit around the cluttered, paper-filled room, and I feel like I've been buried in sand up to my neck, weighed down by the millions of individual grains.
But, if I'm going to be balls-to-the-wall honest with myself, this never-ending deluge of paper spiraling in every direction isn't what makes my heart drop.
Winchester isn't here.
I edge a pile of documents aside with my toe and consider that he might just be late. I put my back to a huge filing cabinet and push off with my feet to move it and rationalize that maybe last week was just a fluke. There is no reason to expect we'd be assigned together every single time.
The cabinet slides against the wall and gives me a tiny square of space to work in, and I pick up a few manila folders and put them back down, shuffle some papers into a heap, and stare at the never-ending, impossibly overwhelming whirlpool threatening to suck me down. I put my hand to my mouth, praying I won't turn sissy, cry my eyes out, and make all my lovingly applied eye makeup roll down my face.
A light knock at the window glass makes me jump and skid on the files and folders, and I can't help the upswing in my heart when I see his face, all soft blue eyes and wry smile.
I throw up the sash and say, "Hey, slacker. You having a picnic out there?"
"I'm on weeding duty." He leans in and looks around, making an eyeball pitstop on me that fine-tooth-combs from the top of my hair to my glitter-red-painted toenails. "I thought I had it bad today. They stuck you with some crazy pile of shit."
"I agree. At least I'm not in the heat."
Not that the stuffy little room with its tiny, rusty fan is much better than being outside under the blistering sun. And not saying I wouldn't be happy to sweat under said blistering sun if I had Winchester Youngblood to keep me company.
After our paint fight last week, the hours we spent together slipped by too fast, and by the end, I felt like a little kid regretting the dip of the sunset at the reluctant end of a perfect day.
It was clear he was attracted to me, sneaky as he thought he was with all those long looks he threw my way when he assumed I wasn't looking, like he was a big bad wolf and I was some fairytale character flouncing on his path. But I could also
