“Already?” he asks, shifting in his seat. “What time do you have to be there?”
“No specific time, really, but we’re having a meeting today about some fundraising possibilities and it’s kind of out of my wheelhouse, so I need to do a little research beforehand.”
“I can help,” he offers, catching me off guard.
I pause, waiting for him to say he’s just kidding, but he doesn’t, and instead, levels me with his serious gaze. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t have a degree in marketing or anything, but I’ve been around my brothers long enough to pick up on a few things. We’ve done quite a bit of fundraising at the gym in Dallas. I’d love to try to help.”
My shoulders sag in relief. I didn’t realize how much this has been stressing me out until the thought of someone taking it off my plate makes me feel like I can breathe easier.
Give me patients with gaping wounds.
Give me people to help.
Give me chores to do.
But don’t give me numbers and money.
I’m good with my own budget, but dealing with someone else’s gives me hives.
“Helen, the coordinator at the shelter . . . well, she runs the place, but that’s her title. She’s everything… CEO, CFO, President, Vice-President, Treasurer . . . you name it, she’s it—”
“What do you do?”
“I check people in, give them an initial exam, treat non-critical wounds . . .”
Gunnar listens thoughtfully, adding, “What you do best.”
“Yes,” I tell him, feeling that warmth spread through my chest. “I guess so.”
“So, what does Helen need help with?”
I sigh, thinking back over our recent conversations. “The funding for the shelter has decreased over the past few years. It’s privately funded and a few of the people who’ve always made large contributions have either fallen on hard times themselves or passed away. We need new donors, but more importantly, we need to recover the money missing from our budget for the year. If we don’t, Helen will be forced to decrease the amount of people we can accept on a weekly basis. It’s the only way to cut costs.”
“So you need quick money . . .” he says, still thinking.
I didn’t expect him to be so . . . I don’t know—easy to talk to? I stare at him for a second, having a moment. How did I, Frankie Reeves, end up sitting across the table from this guy? And am I really going to let him help? When I met him in the ER a couple of weeks ago, I thought I’d never see him again.
He’s different. Different from any other guy I’ve ever met, and different from who I thought he was. It’s hard for me to rationalize the nice, normal, thoughtful guy sitting across from me with the violent, testosterone-driven fighter I’d built him up as in my mind.
He’s not fitting into one compartment and that’s hard for someone like me.
“Helen used to do benefit dinners and things like that, but those—”
“Are old news,” he says, cutting me off. “People need something more exciting, more eye-catching.”
Sighing, I lean my elbows on the table. “Basically,” I tell him. “I’ve tried to think of something, but I don’t have a lot of free time to sit around and brainstorm.”
“Let me,” he insists. “I’d love to help.”
“But aren’t you busy… training, or whatever?” I ask.
Gunnar shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m not doing it twenty-four hours a day, even though Cage would like me to.” He smirks and I think back to meeting the two of them in the ER and how Cage worried over Gunnar with every stitch. He was worse than an old mother hen. It was kind of humorous seeing a big, burly guy like him pace the floor over his little brother, who isn’t little, in any sense of the word.
“Okay, then,” I agree. Digging into my bag, I find one of the business cards I keep on hand and pass it over to Gunnar. “This is Helen’s information. I’ll tell her today to expect a call from you.”
Chapter 7
Gunnar
“So, let me get this straight,” Cage says, standing in the middle of the open kitchen as I fill two to-go cups with coffee. “You’re going to the farmer's market?” He says it like I just told him I’m going to Timbuktu.
“Yes,” I confirm, making sure the lids are on tight. The last thing I need is hot coffee spilling all over me before I can even get it to Frankie. I thought about stopping for more of those amazing jelly-filled donuts, but I decided it’s better to leave those for Wednesday mornings.
Yes, I plan on meeting Frankie at Daisy’s Nut House every Wednesday morning.
I’ve thought about driving to Maryville every other day and meeting her at the hospital for lunch or dinner . . . or maybe a midnight snack or whatever she’ll give me, because I’m feeling a little deprived. How did I go my whole life without knowing her?
Now that our paths have crossed, I feel like I have a lot of time to make up for.
“Wait,” Tempest says, jogging into the kitchen. “Did you say you’re going to the farmer's market?”
Now, Cage is looking at her like she’s crazy too.
“What the fuck is up with the farmer's market?” he asks. “Is it code for something?”
Tempest laughs, shaking her head and blowing him off. The way she looks at him—like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, even when he’s being a grumpy dick—is nauseating. “If you’re really going, can I make you a list?”
“Sure,” I tell her. If Cage thinks I’m doing something for Tempest, he’ll stay off my case about being back anytime soon. When it comes to her, he’d rearrange the periodic table, if need be. “But I’m leaving in five.”
She goes to one of the drawers and pulls out a pen and paper. “I’d go with you, but I have to be back at the bakery in just a few minutes. But if you could get me some of Ms. Reeves’ honey, that’d be great.”
“That’s Frankie’s mom,” I tell her, wondering if Tempest knows anything about her.
“Really?” she asks, her head popping up. “I’ve never met her. Jenn usually picks up the things I need since I hardly ever get a chance to go.”
“Apparently, she’s never there either. Frankie picks up whatever she makes and brings it into town and sells it for her.”
Tempest frowns, turning her attention back to her list. I could say more and I know she wouldn’t judge Frankie or her mom about anything I tell her, but I decide not to. What is said between me and Frankie isn’t anyone else’s business, not even Tempest’s. I already feel protective of her and even the simple conversation we’ve shared feels personal, because I don’t think Frankie gives anyone much of herself. So, I plan on cherishing any little bit she’s willing to give me.
“Well, tell Frankie to tell her mom I’d love more of the mint honey she made last year,” Tempest adds. “I used it in some mint chocolate muffins and they were to die for.”
“Mint honey?” Cage and I share a look, but it’s not doubt. We know anything Tempest makes is to die for. Well, Cage knows more about her muffins than me . . . You know what? Never mind.