Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #4: A BUMBLEBEE IS CONSIDERABLY FASTER THAN A JOHN DEERE TRACTOR

Marshal’s Law #4: A Bumblebee is considerably faster than a John Deere tractor

Wrapped in her robe with her coffee in her hands, Monica leaned on the kitchen counter and just stared.  Outside her window, Marshal was unloading long planks of wood with an absent-minded whistle.  His hat pulled snugly over his eyes, all she could see was shadow and mustache.  His hands covered in leather work gloves, his flat chest framed by the open Carhart jacket and his thighs shaping his jeans with every pull and twist, he was memorizing. 

Pulling a devastated breath, Monica said, “I’m doomed.” 

Almost a month of ignoring the dating website, and with no interest in the men in town- some of which were actually nice- and she was falling for the man in her basement.

Her head fell into her arms and gruffly ordered herself to get a grip.  Marshal was . . . Marshal.  She groped to define the relationship and finally had to settle on the cliché: he was her best friend.  He was her counselor when she was at a loss; he was her rock when she felt weak; he was encouragement and companion and . . . and . . . and absolutely everything she was looking for.

“Then march your butt out to that barn, grab him by the collar and give that man a kiss,” Roxie had said.  For a minute, Monica indulged in the fantasy.  Would his kiss be hard and demanding or softer, tender and welcoming?  Would his mustache tickle?  And his hands, where would they hold her?  How?

She cursed. 

I am not doing this, she promised herself. I am not going to ruin this just because I can’t keep my brain out of the gutter. Scrubbing her hands over her face, she reminded herself that she wanted a casual dating life.

And what does that mean? She asked herself gruffly. Friends with benefits?  How very modern of you, Monica Ellison.

A cold wind whipped through the kitchen and the door slammed it away, making Monica sit upright and take notice.  Marshal stomped his feet in the mudroom and pulled off his gloves.

“Holy Moses,” he called. “That smell- are you making coffee cake?”

Monica laughed, a blush creeping up her neck. “I thought I’d forced my diet on you long enough.”

He slapped his gloves on the table and draped his coat over the chair. “In that case, I forgive you for abandoning me to that joy of a chore.”

The heat crept higher. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have . . .”

“Nonsense,” he said, overriding her apologies as he slid onto the stool opposite her.  His blue eyes twinkled under the mop of hat hair.  “Just spoiled to your coffee and company.  Where’s the paper?”

They were only a half-dozen inches apart, his mouth so devastatingly close that all she could do was stare at it for a moment.  “Uhm,” she said and forced herself to straighten away from him.  “The paper.  You know, I haven’t even gotten it yet.”

“I’ll get it.” 

He loped towards the front door, her eyes hopelessly glued to his tight rear end.  When he disappeared around a corner, her head fell into her hands again.  Stop it, she ordered herself.  Just stop it.  “The coffee cake’s got a few minutes,” she called, knowing that he’d hear. “I’m going to go get dressed.”

“Okay,” he called back.

The barn needed work and, as soon as they finished their breakfast, they’d be out there in the tar and sap and splinters.  A shower would be a waste of time, especially given that she’d have to take another one before her interview.  She took one anyway.  It was quick and cold and didn’t help in the least.  Dressed in her own version of Marshal’s uniform, jeans and flannel, she padded back out into the kitchen, barefoot, as Marshal was cutting his second piece of coffee cake.  His eyes were glued to the crossword.