Page 10 of The Risks of Reuniting (Love Connections #1)

Both

HOLT

I'm holding a bucket of plaster in one hand and a trowel in the other when Chloe walks by with Rachelle, their heads together, looks of concentration on their faces.

Chloe's dark hair stands up in places and I wonder if she realizes that she looks like she got her finger stuck in a light socket.

The afternoon must have been interesting.

Every time I've seen her over the past few days she's been cool and polite, but right now she looks like she's weighed down.

"?Cuidado!" someone calls from my left and I turn a moment too late, taking a ladder to the side of my head.

The bucket of plaster falls to the ground, landing on my toes before tipping over, wasting a precious resource. The trowel also falls from my grip, following the ladder to the ground, and I grasp at my head, wiping my fingers through my hair as I blink away the pain. Or try to anyhow.

"Holt," Cesar calls, charging my direction from the other side of the small area where we're working. "Are you okay?"

I look at my fingers and see blood, which is unfortunate because now people will really worry rather than shrugging it off as an unfortunate, but standard, construction site accident.

They'll insist I be seen by the medical clinic.

They won't care when I tell them I've been hit on the head many times.

"I'm all right." I hold up my blood-free hand and look at the men who have gathered around.

"Really, estoy bien," I say, attempting a smile.

My head is beginning to pound and I feel a little nauseated, both bad signs.

I look at my work boots and my vision goes dark around the periphery.

"I'll sit," I say, pointing to the ground, and I do just that, sitting right down and hanging my head over my lap. Man, that hurts.

"Holt?" a soft voice sounds from my side a moment before Rachelle crouches down in front of me. "Let me take a look, honey."

Her voice is southern sugar and I look behind her to see Chloe standing nearby with her hands shoved in her pockets.

Her expression is concerned, but remote, and it's strange having her within reach but untouchable.

Her eyes are tired, and I want to ask what happened today almost as much as I want her to ask me if I'm okay.

Rachelle's soft fingers are cooler than mine as they tug my hand away from the wound.

She hums under her breath as she parts my hair, and I watch her gold hair swing in my peripheral vision.

Her scrubs have kittens in all colors of the rainbow, and I smile at them as I catch the scent of toothpaste mint, which is a step up from the guys I've been working with.

I hear a soft sigh that tells me it's a decent gash, and lean back into the building in disappointment.

"I'm ok. Just need a minute to stop seeing the flying blue jays circling my head," I say quietly. I look at her. "Are those kittens really there?" I joke, pointing at her scrubs.

She huffs a laugh. "You're going to need stitches, which might mean shaving part of your head. "

I tilt my head to look over at Chloe, and am happy to see she's gotten closer. My head swims again and I imagine that from this close I can see the green flecks in her dark eyes.

"Please, anything but that. This hair is my best feature," I crack, swallowing back the nausea that's fighting to take hold.

"I'm not a doctor, but we can hope," Rachelle replies as she pushes to stand. "Let's get you to the clinic, tough guy."

She reaches down a hand, and I take it. My eyes catch Chloe's when I gain my feet, and her expression slips into the professional one I've seen aimed at other people a million times. I understand that I put that wall there through my actions, but I hate it anyway, and do my best to push past it.

"What do you think, Chloe? Stitches?" I ask.

"I heard that ladder slam into your brick head from across the courtyard," she says lightly. "You're lucky to be conscious."

Rachelle reaches up and takes my face between her hands, forcing my eyes to hers and searching with a concerned expression. She's tall, and I frown wondering how I hadn't noticed that before. I blink and look at her again. Her eyes are blue. It's like I've never actually seen her. Strange.

"His pupils do not look right," Rachelle says, releasing me to place her hands on her hips.

"Will he live?" Cesar asks, coming in closer.

We've only been here a few days, but he's already become a friend, and I know I'd be worried if he were hurt too.

"I would hate for him to die." His hands are covered in plaster and he has a streak of the white material across his face where he most likely swiped away sweat. "I like him."

"Sorry you had to clean up my mess, amigo," I say to him, managing a smile through the thudding heartbeat in my brain. I put a hand on his slight shoulder. "I'll live. "

Rachelle slips her arm through mine, tugging to get me walking toward the medical clinic that's a few doors down from the dental one where she and Chloe work.

She's mumbling things about the safety protocols in Peru and the lack of hard hats as we shuffle along.

Chloe took one look at the situation and marched ahead, most likely off to let the doctor know we're on our way.

I watch her slim body move along and feel a mixture of sadness and longing.

This is all wrong. All of it. Every day, it's wrong. We need to talk, and soon.

Rachelle keeps up a light stream of friendly chitchat as we walk, but I don't hear anything above a ringing sound that's started in my ears.

Cesar is trailing us, also keeping up a stream of chatter in Spanish, and I give up trying to make sense of any of it.

It's hopeless. All I can track is the brown dirt beneath my feet as I drag myself forward.

When we arrive at the clinic, the doctor and his nurse, Emilia, are waiting at the door to greet us.

Emilia shifts Chloe to the side, her young face alight with compassion for my injury.

Her scrubs are streaked with colors I don't want to think about as she reaches out for me.

Rachelle hands me off, and I look at Chloe as I'm gently guided through the door.

"Are you coming inside too?" I ask her.

She bites her lips and shakes her head. "I'm not a doctor," she replies, effectively keeping the boundary between us in place.

My shoulders sag and I break the eye contact as I'm pulled deeper into the shaded building.

Cesar comes in too, and the doctor starts asking questions about the incident as I'm laid out on an exam table.

I answer their questions, and Cesar fills in the blanks when my mind drifts off due to the ache that keeps building.

After Emilia cleans the wound it's decided I will need stitches and, thankfully, they'll only trim down the hair directly around the wound.

I have enough hair that it won't be too noticeable while that part grows back.

Vain? Maybe. But I've long ago given up feeling awkward about my love affair with my hair.

Thirty minutes later I'm escorted back to the work site at my own demand.

I've been given pain meds and told what symptoms to watch for.

The doctor wanted me to spend the rest of the day lying in my room, resting.

While I fully understand the seriousness of head trauma, I came here for a reason, and a compromise was struck.

I'll sit against a wall for the last hour of our workday, in the shade, near where the work is happening so that I can answer questions and help where I can.

My background in construction has helped the work move along faster in the time I've been here, and I don't want to see it slow down.

I've been sitting for ten minutes when Carlos shows up. He looks stern as he approaches and I wince.

"Senor Holt," he says as he comes to stand above me, hands on his hips. "We are not happy about injured volunteers sitting in the dirt."

I manage what I hope is a charming smile. "Lifting Hope has a reputation to uphold," I respond. "I won't tell anyone."

His scowl deepens. "This is not about a bad review on your internet," he scoffs. "We are helpers of people. We are not hurting people."

I nod. "Sorry."

"You need rest. Doctor told me you said no. I say yes. Go rest. Come back tomorrow."

I gesture to where the men have cleaned up the spilled plaster and stood up the fallen ladder. "I'm supervising them, answering questions. I'm just sitting quietly."

He shakes his head. "No. I am saying go to your room and rest. And I am the boss." He taps his thumb against his chest. "Understand?"

I do. Plus, I respect what he's doing here, and I don't want to make things harder on him.

I stand with some effort, my head still a little wonky, and salute him before heading off to my room.

I barely make it, sweating as I enter the door, the nausea crawling up my throat.

I flop onto the bed, grateful that it's cool and dark, and I close my eyes. Suddenly, I want my mom.

I find my phone in my back pocket and, thankful for my long-held international plan, I dial her number. I'm sure she's at work, but whenever I'm out of the country she's good about answering regardless. Sure enough, she comes through as she always does.

"Holt," she answers, her voice quiet but pleased. "Give me a second to get somewhere private so we can talk."

I picture her face, still young-looking but beginning to show laugh lines around her light eyes, and am immediately comforted. I may be twenty-four, but there are some things only your mom can make better.

A minute later she's back, her voice warm. "How are you?" she asks.