Bring Me Home for Christmas (Virgin River #16)(22)

He had a full-time job, even if he did say the farm wasn’t too busy this time of year. And he helped Jack around the bar all the time—that was probably a part-time job. And that was the Denny she had known and missed—the guy who was the friend you could depend on if you needed something.

He wasn’t going to be available to entertain her all the time, to keep her busy and her mind off the fact that she was bored out of her skull. She leaned back against the leather couch cushions and thought yet again, Oh, man, this is going to be so tedious! What was she supposed to do for two weeks? Watch daytime TV and reread her favorite romances? Nap? How in the world was she supposed to nap? She wasn’t the least bit tired. All she’d done for twenty-four hours was sit around with her foot up!

And that was the last conscious thought she had for a while. When she opened her eyes again, she blinked a couple of times. It was a different talk show and she had slumped down on the couch. There was a kid sitting on the sofa next to her. His backpack was on the floor and he was petting his dog.

“Did I wake you up?” he asked. “Because my mom said to be quiet.”

“No. No, not at all,” she said, pushing herself upright a little.

“I think you got a little drool there on your mouth.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said, wiping her mouth. Sure enough.

“Oh, that’s okay. My mom does that all the time.”

“Does she? I bet you’re Chris.”

“Yup. And you’re Becca. What kind of name is Becca?”

“Short for Rebecca,” she said. “Are you just getting home from school?”

“Yup. And I have chores and homework. I’m not allowed to have TV on after school till the chores and homework are done.”

Becca fished around the couch until she came up with the remote and flicked off the TV. “That’s very smart of your mom. Mind if I ask about the chores? Like what kind?”

“I get the trash together, but my dad takes it out because the Dumpster is too tall for me. Sometimes I fold the napkins for the bar and when no one is sleeping on the couch, I run the vacuum around—Comet’s hairy. I have to let Comet out—I did that part already. My bed’s made—I did it this morning before the bus came. But I always look at my homework first, before the chores. Except Comet—he really needs to get outside right away.”

Becca liked that. “What kind of homework?”

“Math, spelling and reading. I worked on the spelling on the bus a little, but everyone was rowdy so I’m gonna have to do it again. I have to use my whole brain for the math. And I’m already good at reading.”

She smiled at him. “How old are you?”

“Seven. I’m in second grade.”

“Boy, do I have a surprise for you,” she said. “I’m a second-grade teacher.”

“In real life?” he asked.

“In real life. In my pretend life I’m a girl with a broken ankle.”

“From jumping out of the truck without looking where you were going?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“Denny came back from hunting with a dead duck. He gave it to my dad and went down to his place for a shower. After he looked at you sleeping. He said if you woke up to tell you he’d be back when he smelled better.”

Her first thought was that he’d seen her drooling. “Nice,” she said.

“So he’s like your boyfriend or something?”

Becca thought about this for two seconds or less before changing the subject. “Since I’m a teacher and everything, want me to work on your homework with you? We could do math or spelling or you could read to me.”

“I like to read to myself, but I could use a little help with the math. We’re doing multiplying, which is like adding over and over and over.”

“In second grade?”

“Some of us got ahead of ourselves.”

“Totally. Where do you normally do your homework?”

“At the table over there.”

“Let’s go.”

“You gonna use your crutches and everything?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, dragging herself to her feet. “I have to put my leg up on a chair, so can I have the end, please?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. You gonna do it by yourself?”

She balanced on her crutches. “Wait till you see how good I am at this.” She swung her way across the room, pulled out a couple of chairs, got situated and hoisted her leg up. “Ready for math!”

“You act like you like homework or something,” he said.

“Well, being a teacher and all…”

“Yeah. You prob’ly can’t get enough of it, huh?”

“There you go. Show me your books, Chris. I want to see what you’re working on.”

“Sure,” he said, unloading his books onto the dining table. “Try not to get too excited about this—it’s work.”

She laughed at him. “You know how I learned my multiplication tables? We had to write them out a hundred times when we got in trouble. But for me, it was fourth grade, not second. I think maybe you’re a wizard or something.”

“Well, I don’t want to write ’em a hundred times, no offense.”