The Parent Playbook (Love on Thin Ice)

11. Angel

CHAPTER 11

ANGEL

W ith septic system plans and permit applications sprawled across the picnic table on the ranch house porch, I’m channeling all my power to not think about Scotty’s arms.

How absurdly firm they felt, how unsettlingly nice it was to be so close. The weight of his hand as it brushed mine. The sense of security he brings when he takes charge and, you know, saves the ranch from burning down.

It feels like it was all a dream. Last night might have been emergency fixes and finding solutions under the stars, but this morning, it’s just me and a stack of paperwork that smells like bureaucracy and frustration.

I catch myself tracing the line of his jaw in my mind, the way his smile seemed to light up the dim barn as if he’d screwed in a new bulb by sheer will.

Come on, Angel, a voice inside me says. You need a mental smack for going there with your thoughts. Romance? Now? With everything hanging in the balance here at Happy Horizons?

That’s about as well-timed as a raccoon in the henhouse.

Scotty’s the quintessential good guy, though. He’s got that easy charm, a knack for turning up right when I need a hand, and that disarming blend of humility and confidence. It’s exactly because he’s such grade-A material that I’m in this mess of a mind maze.

I should be poring over these documents, not daydreaming about his—well, everything.

Back to the septic system diagrams, I go. They’re as thrilling as watching paint dry.

My mind, traitorous thing that it is, wanders again, this time to his laugh, the solid sense of his presence.

“Focus, girl,” I mutter under my breath. “Fixing septic tanks, not fixating on you know who.”

But it’s tough. The more I try to anchor my thoughts to the task at hand, the more they drift away, sailing back to last night, how he rolled up his sleeves and tackled problems, to the unexpected ache in my chest when he looked at me like he’d never seen a woman hammer a joist before.

Scotty MacFarland might be too good to be true, and I’m … I’m me. Complicated, a bit jaded, and with a ranch to keep afloat. The timing might be all wrong, but then, when has timing ever been right?

Sigh.

I flip a page in the septic hygiene manual, the paper slicing against my thumb—a sharp little reminder that I’ve got real problems to solve. But as blood wells, I’m dangerously close to admitting I wouldn’t mind solving these “emergencies” with Scotty by my side.

I can’t even believe myself!

“Mom! Guess what? Guess what?” Andy is practically shouting, which only adds to the piercing quality of his voice that I’m sure could shatter glass—if not my last nerve this morning.

Andy and Lil, bright-eyed and practically vibrating with excitement, interrupt my brooding session over flow rates and filtration fields.

“I’ll bite. What?” I close my folder with a resigned snap. Anything to postpone the inevitable headache from these septic tank specs.

“Maple Fest is this weekend already! And Lil’s never been. We’ve got to go together!” Andy declares as if announcing a trip to Disneyland. Beside him, Lil nods vigorously, her blonde locks bouncing with each enthusiastic jerk of her head.

“Hmmm, I don’t know …” I hum and haw, though the festival’s been marked on our calendar for months. It’s one of Maple Falls’ few claims to fame, a weekend where the town shows the world it’s as quaint and charming as any of those places in a Hallmark movie.

Andy grabs Lil’s shoulders, launching into a showman’s act. “There’s gonna be pumpkin carving, and not the boring triangles-for-eyes business, but serious carving. Ian from the Regent’s said he’s making a pirate ship pumpkin. And hayrides! Nighttime ones with ghost stories and everything.” His words tumble out faster than popcorn kernels in hot oil.

Lil’s eyes widen and I have to keep myself from chuckling.

“And don’t forget the corn maze,” Andy continues, barely pausing for breath. “It’s going to be huge this year. Plus, there’s the apple bobbing contest, and they even added some new games, like a pumpkin toss and a scarecrow-making competition where you can dress up a scarecrow in whatever costume you like!”

As they describe more of the festival’s quaint activities—from the cider tasting stand to local bake-off that I’m somehow roped into judging every year—I get caught up with them. Their faces light up thinking about Maple Fest, and it’s infectious.

“They have a new thing this year,” Andy finishes with a flourish, “a haunted barn! But it’s only a little scary, so kids can go in.”

“Sounds like the whole town’s been busy.” Lil looks from Andy to me. “You really think we can go?”

“Of course,” I say, brushing a lock from her eye. “It’s a blast for everyone. ”

“Come on, Lil. Let’s go work on my treehouse before the sun goes down. Your dad will be busy helping my mom, anyway.” Andy bolts, but Lil hesitates, her gaze shifting to me.

“What’s up, Lil?” I ask. She’s got something on her mind, but I can’t tell what.

She bites her lip, seeming to wrestle with a question or a decision. After a second, though, she shakes her head. “Never mind,” she mumbles, then hurries after Andy, who’s already halfway to the treehouse they’ve been hammering together bit by bit.

What was that about?

Shaking off the mystery, I reopen my folder, the daunting stack of paperwork waiting. Scotty’s truck might be a welcome sound later, but for now, I’ve got these forms and a festering worry about our water systems that won’t quite go away.

And there it is, tires on gravel heading this way.

Don’t smile, Angel. Don’t smile like a lovestruck clown.

I’m smiling.

The engine cuts and silence floods back over the ranch, but a ridiculous flutter kicks up in my stomach.

Scotty hops out, a grin plastered on his face and a wrench spinning in his hand like he’s some sort of Wild West gunslinger. He catches my eye and tips his Stetson. “Ma’am, heard tell there’s a mean ol’ septic system needs tamin’. Figured I’d mosey on over and give it a what for.”

I groan and shake my head, but it’s more endearing than a troupe of baby ducks.

He joins me on the porch, where my battle with municipal codes and environmental regulations has laid siege across the table.

“Ready to dive into the trenches, or should I say stenches ?” he asks, nodding toward the yard where the real work awaits.

“Lead the way, Sheriff,” I reply, scooping up the plans and following him to where the ground has been marked for digging .

Between setting up the tools and going over the details of the septic repair, my frustrations fade into the background. Instead, there’s this easy camaraderie that seems to spring up whenever Scotty’s around.

We fall into a rhythm, passing tools back and forth. “So, what’s worse,” I ask as I hand him a shovel, “dealing with frozen pipes in the dead of winter or wrestling with rebel septic tanks in the fall?”

“Oh, definitely the septic tanks,” he replies without missing a beat. “At least the pipes have the decency to freeze quietly. These tanks, they make a stink about everything.”

I snort, shaking my head as I dig in alongside him. “You’re terrible.”

“And yet, here you are, laughing at my terrible jokes.”

He’s not wrong.

As we take a break from the grunt work of digging and fixing, leaning against the barn with water bottles in hand, I bring up last night’s VidHits revelation.

“So, I watched that viral chancla video you mentioned,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Pretty impressive aim those moms have.”

Scotty laughs, his eyes lighting up. “Told you! Those chanclas come with homing devices, I swear.”

“Naw, us ladies have good aim. I reckon I could knock anything off your head with my boot. Just as good as any chancla.”

His eyebrows shoot up as a playful grin spreads across his face. “Is that so? Care to prove it, sharpshooter?”

Before I know it, Scotty’s placing an empty water bottle atop his head, standing with a mock-serious expression, hands by his sides. “All right, Annie Oakley, let’s see what you’ve got.”

I hesitate for a split second—am I really about to throw my boot at this man? But the impish spark in his eyes is too much to resist. I slip off my boot, balance it in my hand, and toss it gently .

It spins through the air, perfectly knocking the bottle off without so much as grazing his hair.

Scotty applauds. “Nice shot! But was it luck or skill?”

“I think we’re about to find out.”

“Over here!” He runs to the other side of the barn and I’m a few strides behind. He snatches his safety goggles, balancing them on his head, but they’re no match for my aim. I knock them off with a satisfying thud.

“Over here!”

A feed bucket, an egg basket, and a grooming brush later, I’ve kept my perfect score.

“You’re amazing!” he shouts. “Wait, I know …” With a particularly devilish grin, Scotty puts on his cowboy hat. “This one’s for all the marbles, Angel.”

“You’re asking a lot of me here. That baby is hugging your head.”

“I have confidence in you.”

“That’s one of us anyway,” I mumble as I take aim, my heart pounding—not from the game, but from the way he looks at me, like I’m the only woman on earth. “Here goes nothing …”

The boot flies true, flicking the hat right off that handsome head.

“Yes!” he cries, and next thing I know, I’m heading for him.

As if drawn by a magnet, I stumble right into Scotty’s waiting arms. Our bodies crash together, his hands steadying me at my waist, and we laugh, my hands on his chest. We’re face to face, breaths mingling, the laughter filling the barn until it fades out and all that’s left is him and me.

His eyes search mine, and there’s so much affection, such tenderness, that something inside me melts on the spot.

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

I bite my lip as my arms gently push on his chest.

What am I doing?

I have no idea. I can’t tell what I want. I think it’s him, that I want him more than I’ve wanted almost anything, but a force in me presses him back.

This is a silly crush. A silly crush on a super handsome, considerate, helpful, gentle, intelligent, muscular man.

He lets me go, and I don’t know if he just ruined it or saved us both, but he follows up by setting a box of screws on his head.

“How about this? One more for good luck, unless you’re scared of hitting something other than hats.”

The spell may be broken, but my heart still races. “It’s a small target, but I’ve been known to hit a gourd with an arrow from thirty yards at Maple Fest.”

“Prove it, cowgirl.”

Must calm these overwrought nerves. I wind up, ready for the shot …

“MOM!”

“I WASN’T DOING ANYTHING!” I shout as the boot flies a little too forcefully, my aim a little off.

And it smacks Scotty straight in the face.