Vivian Leiber - The 6'2'', 200 Lb. Challenge

“Because I’m just getting by. Because I want to do something more with my life. Because I’m twenty-five years old and there aren’t a lot of opportunities for a single woman in a small town like Grace Bay.”

“Move to the city. Get married. I’ll bet one of those is what all your girlfriends do.”

“You’re right. Most of them have already gotten married or left town. But I’ve got my grandmother.”

“The English teacher?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard an earful. You seem like a pretty hardheaded person. Why don’t you just tell her you’re moving and that’s that?”

“It’s not that simple. She’s sick, just in the way older people can be. Nothing very specific, nothing that can’t be handled—with some help. I’m the only one here for her. If I leave, she’d have to go to the retirement center. She wouldn’t be happy.”

“And you think being a firefighter is going to make your life better,” he said derisively.

“I want to do more with my life. Don’t get me wrong. Waitressing is an honorable profession. I’ve done it for years and I’m proud of my work. But I want something else. Also...I saw you that night.”

“What night?”

“The night of the fire at the apartment house. I saw it on television and I knew you were a hero and—”

“Don’t ever, ever call me a hero,” he said softly but darkly. And with enough force that both of them knew she would never mention the word again.

He took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his ribs. “Listen, Little Miss Sunshine, being a firefighter isn’t what you think. It’s long, dull hours punctuated by moments of stark terror. And for a woman like you—beautiful and all—there would be a lot of hassling from the guys.”

“That doesn’t sound much different from working the day shift at Boris’s,” Mimi said pointedly. “Long hours with no customers and nothing much to do. A two-hour lunch rush with everyone wanting everything at once. And plenty of guys hitting on me.”

“You’re not listening to me. I’m telling you, don’t do this. Don’t try to be a firefighter.”

“And I’m saying you’re entitled to your opinion but I’m staying.”

“Why, I oughta pick you up, throw you over my shoulder and dump you out on the front lawn!”

“Yeah, but you can’t,” she said with a triumphant smile. “I’ll be in the kitchen. I don’t know what you did to that burner panel on your stove, but it’s going to take a lot of elbow grease. So settle back and think about what you want me to make for dinner.”

Gibson growled. If there were any way he could get up, he would. If there were any way he could get her out of his house, he would.

But as he tested his capacity to stand one more time, the pain shooting through his body reminded him of the humiliating truth: He couldn’t do a darned thing about Mimi Pickford.

Chapter Three

Gibson’s mouth watered at the sight of the tray Mimi set down on the coffee table, two hours—and four unendurably boring re-runs—later.

It was the first food he’d seen in at least a week that didn’t come from a flat, white cardboard box delivered by the pimply-faced teenager Stan, who got a five-dollar bonus if he disposed of the previous evening’s box on his way out the door.

Seven if he took the day’s newspapers with him.

Mimi’s temptation was two slices of meat loaf with a barbecue-style sauce, a mountain of mashed potatoes with a single square of butter melting at its peak and green beans. Peach cobbler on the side. And iced tea.

All of it served on the china and glassware he had inherited from his mother. With a fork, knife and spoon that weren’t white plastic, but silver.

Or at least silverplate.

And with a single yellow tulip in a sparkling crystal water glass.

“Here’s a napkin,” she said, handing him a folded linen cloth.

He allowed himself one deep satisfying sniff. And then said, “I won’t eat it, Ms. Pickford, so you can take the tray away.”

“You don’t have to throw a snit. It’s just food. I made it for you.”

“Did the chief tell you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

“No, but I’m not interested in your heart. I’m interested in your walking into that station house and my getting my second shot at the obstacle course.”

“Put the tray in the kitchen,” he said, turning his head away. “I’m not eating any of it.”

“Oh, no, I’m leaving it right here.”

“Why? I’m not going to eat it.”

“I’m leaving it because I hate the idea of a grown man crawling.”

“Who said I’m going to crawl?”

“I did. You’re too proud to admit that you want the food and I know you won’t eat it ’til I’m gone,” she said, and she crossed her arms over her chest, daring him to disagree. “I’m leaving for work and over the next few hours—minutes, even—you’re going to get more and more hungry.”

“So?”

“So, eventually, hunger will win out over your foolish male pride. If I put the tray in the kitchen, you’ll have to go get it yourself. And that means only one thing—crawling. You don’t even have a wheelchair. I heard you’re too proud—limped right out of the rehab center on the cabbie’s arm, didn’t you?”

Her eyes had that prim “gotcha” that he found acutely annoying.

But she was right.

He probably would be reduced to crawling.

The food just smelled too darned good, looked too darned tempting.

And a man could take only so many nights of delivered pizza.

“Fine, suit yourself, leave it there on the coffee table,” he conceded sharply. “Makes no difference to me.”

“I’m leaving now,” she said, having the good sense not to dwell on her victory. “Don’t you think I did a good job on the house?”

He opened his mouth to tell her not to press her luck. But he looked around the living room and through the dining room to the door of the kitchen. The house was immaculate—the hardwood floors gleaming, the dining room table cleared, the stacks of newspapers neatly tied with twine in the recycling bins.

She had worked a miracle in two hours with nothing more than a bottle of scrubbing bubbles, some dishwashing detergent, and a lot of muscle.

Her hair had pulled loose from its chignon in damp tendrils. Her face was rosebud pink and moist with sweat. But she hadn’t lost a bit of the perkiness that made her both a wonder and an annoyance.

Her smile was still enough to make a man believe in angels.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Yeah, I guess the house looks pretty good.”

“You could say thank you.”

“I could.”

Silence.

He wasn’t going to give that extra inch.

She sighed.

“I have to go to work now, but I’ll stop in and check on you later tonight.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t...”

“You won’t what? You won’t be here? You’ll be out dancing? Out playing a few rounds of golf? Out getting a five-mile run in? Forget it, Gibson, you’ll be here. And I’ll check on you.”

“I might be asleep,” he pointed out.

“That’s okay. You won’t have to get the door and I promise to be quiet. I picked out one of your house keys from the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen.”

He glared murderously, but said nothing. It was like the chief said. When Mimi Pickford wanted something...well, he comforted himself with the notion that he, Gibson St. James, might be the first thing in her life that didn’t roll over and play dead to her cheerleader-like enthusiasm.

Still, the tray was very distracting.

“Gibson, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

Silence.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.