Down on Love by Jayne Denker Page A

as a “yes.”
    “I have one in my car. I can drive—”
    “No!” he yelped, as the memory of her nearly flattening him and his friends in the road sent a flare of alarm through him. “I mean,” he rushed to amend, seeing her frown at him in confusion, “it’s a nice day. Let’s walk. I’ll grab the stroller.”
     
    “So . . . Jaz was working for you when she got hurt?”
    “Yep,” Casey said tersely. “There’s a lot that needs doing on the farm lately. She said she was up for it . . .” He drifted off with a sigh.
    George focused on navigating the stroller over an uneven seam in the sidewalk. For most of their walk to Main Street, she’d kept looking straight ahead while Casey explained the events of the past month that led up to the development of his becoming the Down-Montgomerys’ occasional handyman. He’d offered to push the stroller, but George had turned him down—so she’d have something to do, somewhere to put her hands, something to focus on. It had been a good call. It was ridiculous, but there was no denying George felt more rational and levelheaded when she wasn’t looking directly at him. She’d never have thought Casey could possibly have become better looking with age, but he had. Damn.
    It was the regret in his voice that finally turned her head. His lips were tight as he squinted down the leafy lane. A feeling of compassion washed over her, warming her insides and making her think impure thoughts about comforting him.
    Now was a good time to check on the baby. Yeah. She peeked through the peephole in the canopy. Amelia had nodded off, making up for the nap she couldn’t be bothered to finish earlier.
    “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not your fault,” she said softly. “It was just an accident.”
    “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what Sera and Jaz said. That’s what they keep saying. But I can’t convince myself. I figured the least I could do was to help them with day-to-day stuff: mow the lawn, take out the trash. Today it just so happened I was around to fix the plumbing.”
    “Even though you have a farm to run.”
    “Sometimes you’ve gotta make time for other things.”
    George wanted to ask how that worked, but they turned onto Main Street, and they had to navigate around people on the sidewalk. George utilized her usual keep-your-head-down-and-plow-through technique, which was essential in order to get anywhere on foot in Boston. But she was reminded, in short order, that that behavior wasn’t going to fly here. No, sir.
    “Oh my goodness. Little George Down?”
    Oh crap. George looked up quickly to find Missy Preston, owner of the consignment shop Missy’s Hits for Misses, rolling a sale rack onto the sidewalk.
    The woman was a little more lined in the face than George remembered, but she still sported that familiar ginormous cloud of orangey-red hair that made her look like she’d backed into a cotton candy machine. The older lady beamed at her and clasped her hands, bracelets jangling.
    “Oh, I just knew it was you. So good to see you, dear. And you, Casey. You look lovely, George. Doesn’t she look lovely, Casey?”
    Casey mumbled something in agreement while George flushed. “Thanks, Mrs. Preston. Good to see you, too.”
    Mrs. Preston beamed, then turned her attention to the stroller. “And there’s my little Amelia,” she sang, bending down to make faces at the baby and in the process showing more than a little wrinkled cleavage above the deep V of her tropical-print wrap dress. When she realized Amelia was out cold, she straightened up and turned her attention back to George. “I’m so glad you came by. I’ve been dying to tell you—I simply adore that blog of yours.”
    George blinked. She glimpsed Casey’s inquisitive expression out of the corner of her eye and wondered how much he knew. To Mrs. Preston, she said, “Oh. You . . . you read my blog?”
    “Well, of course I do! Who doesn’t? It’s so very clever. And saucy