Me and the Cute Catastrophe (Sweet, Small Town Romantic Comedy in Good Grief, Idaho Book 1)

by Jessie Gussman

  She grabs a hold of Midget’s collar and goes to walk around me.

  “We can talk about it on the walk home,” I say. I don’t want her to weasel out of it. Even though I have her number now, if she’s not going to talk to me about it, I am seriously going to call my own practices.

  Claire opens her mouth, but I never find out what she is going to say.

  “Oh, honey, I was hoping you could stay and look at my sink. It’s leaking.” Mrs. Thompson stands with both hands underneath a paper plate filled with cookies, artfully arranged, with what looks like a slab of Jell-O in the middle. They are covered with plastic wrap. Little toothpicks hold the plastic up from the shiny stuff in the middle.

  Thankfully, she is holding it out to Claire. But as I look away, I realize that’s what Mrs. Thompson was doing at the counter while Claire and I were having our discussion. There is a plate for—I assume—me, too.

  I shift, aware of my loafers and the business suit I’m wearing. I took my tie off and unbuttoned the top button, but still, I am sure normal people wouldn’t pass me off as a plumber.

  But normal people are few and far between in Good Grief, Idaho.

  Normal people live in New York or California. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with lots of nice restaurants and no green-eyed girls that make my heart pound.

  “I’ll take a look at it, Mrs. Thompson. Although I’m not making any promises.” I did a lot of work for my dad growing up, but plumbing isn’t exactly my area of expertise.

  I didn’t take a single plumbing class in college. Although I took plenty of classes that seemed completely worthless. Russian history comes to mind.

  A plumbing class would have been much more beneficial.

  I don’t think the money I spent in college was meant to actually pay for anything useful.

  Claire, with one hand still gripping Midget’s collar, slides her hand under the plate that Mrs. Thompson holds.

  I think she was going to leave.

  “Claire. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll walk home with you and we can have that discussion.”

  “I told you, I need to leave. My daughter’s cooking, and I need to go make sure she doesn’t catch the kitchen on fire.”

  I think she is serious.

  “Your mom’s the fire chief. I’m sure she has everything under control.”

  “Because my mom is the fire chief, I need to make sure my daughter doesn’t catch the kitchen on fire.” This is the first time that I notice something that might be humor on her face.

  I don’t remember her smiling too much when we were younger. I didn’t see her in school, but she struck me as a serious student. At home, she was a little more unbridled, and I think there is a goofy personality lurking underneath all of that super serious stuffy stuff she projects to the world.

  The idea that that might be true jacks up the attraction I’ve been feeling all along. It isn’t an unpleasant feeling, but it certainly is unwelcome.

  She’s kind of right. I have colleagues that I will still be working with, remotely of course, back in Seattle. They laughed when I said I was moving back to my hometown.

  For goodness sakes, I never called my hometown Good Grief. Not to my business colleagues. They thought I was moving to the sticks, and they were pretty much right. They thought I was going backward in my career, and they were kind of right about that too.

  In doing what I’ve done, there isn’t too much of my life that can be respected or admired from a business/personal point of view.

  However, success with the girls’ basketball team, even modest success, but especially if we win a championship, would more than make up for it.

  So yeah, I do kind of have ulterior motives.

  No pressure.

  It is just my reputation at stake.

  Maybe there is a bit of a desperate look on my face, because Mrs. Thompson has compassion on me. “Maybe you could just come back later tonight or tomorrow and take a look at it for me.”

  I nod. Me taking a look at it will probably consist of me lying down on the floor underneath her sink, getting dirty and putting my back out of joint, and all just so that I can say, “Mrs. Thompson, your sink is leaking.” Because I certainly won’t have any better idea of how to fix it when I lie down and look at it than I do right now.

  “I’ll do that,” I say. I take the paper plate with my cookies and Jell-O square and wave a thank you with my elbow as I hurry out the door after Claire.

  Chapter 6

  Claire

  SERIOUSLY? IS THE DUDE following me?

  I’ve already made it down the porch steps and to Mrs. Thompson’s gate before I hear what sounds like footsteps on her back stairs. The ones I just went down.

  He is. He’s following me.

  I thought he was going to look at her sink. I figured I could make a clean getaway.

  Midget doesn’t walk very well on a leash, and it’s almost impossible to grab a hold of her collar and lead her anywhere. She is basically dragging me while I try hard to keep the plate of cookies level.

  I guess I like Jell-O, but I don’t typically like it mixed up with cookies, and I definitely don’t like soggy cookies.

  I’m pretty sure it’s Jell-O in the middle of the cookies. Hence, my desperation to keep the plate level.

  Still, I can’t resist tilting my head over my shoulder as we go through the gate and hook a hard left back to my house.

  I should never have done that. I do find out that Trey is indeed following me, but I also hook my foot on the corner post of the fence.

  I think I’d have been okay if I hadn’t had a hold of Midget’s collar.

  Or I might have been okay if the fence weren’t as old as Mrs. Thompson.

  All right. I know I’m not fooling anyone.

  I would have been okay if I weren’t a clumsy klutz who can’t walk in a straight line even without a Great Dane dragging me and a plate of cookies to try to keep level and this overpowering urge to look at Trey Haywood.

  As I fall, I let go of Midget’s collar, thinking I might be able to catch myself with a hand on the ground, but that doesn’t work out because the fence falls down beside me and I end up scraping my shoulder on the pointy tops while trying to get away from it and also keep the cookies level. In hindsight, I should have just given up on the cookies. I end up twisting and somehow landing on my back on top of the fence, with the cookies on the ground.

  The good thing about all this is Midget doesn’t run away, because she is too busy eating the cookies. Apparently, she likes Jell-O too. And also apparently, she doesn’t care whether it’s mixed up with her cookies.

  So, right. I feel like an idiot.

  It’s even worse since I just had a huge argument about whether or not I should be the basketball coach, and here I am not even able to put one foot in front of the other without landing on top of someone’s fence.

  I’m a big believer in if you fall down, you get right back up and try again.

  I have to admit I’m also a big believer in lying there for a minute, allowing yourself a chance to catch your breath. Which is what I am doing. With my eyes closed.

  I suppose somewhere deep down inside, I am hoping that Trey will just walk on by.

  “I suppose Mrs. Thompson is going to want me to take a look at this right after I take a look at the leaky sink.”

  I don’t really want to open my eyes. How is his voice able to send shivers from the base of my skull clear down to the tip of my tailbone and have them trickle right back up feeling just as good the second time?

  I don’t even like him.

  I’ve learned in the last half hour that it is quite possible to not like someone but have their voice absolutely give you the most amazing case of goosebumps ever recorded in the modern world.

  Funny that case is in Good Grief, Idaho. Our sole claim to fame, and only I know about it.

  I’m in no hurry to answer him, although what he said doesn’t really require an answer, so I leave my eyes closed a
nd wait for the very last of the goosebumps to dissipate before I break the spell and open them.

  He’s staring straight down at me, holding his own plate carefully in his hand. I’m betting he has the same issues with Jell-O and cookies that I do.

  Just guessing.

  Thinking of that, I reach out and, because of the mouth noises—Midget is a noisy eater—I know exactly where she is and hook my fingers on her collar.

  That’s going to make it even more awkward to stand up, but at least I won’t be chasing my dog around the neighborhood again. Actually, after she finishes up the plate of cookies, she’ll probably be ready to go home anyway.

  “I hope Mrs. Thompson isn’t watching out of her window. I feel bad that she went through all the trouble to bake the cookies and give me a plate, only to have Midget end up eating them.”

  I’ve barely said that when I hear a door slam, the sound of a screen door slapping against the frame, and footsteps on Mrs. Thompson’s back stairs.

  Trey puts a hand in his pocket and shifts slightly, as though settling himself to stay a while. “Pretty sure she saw it. Pretty sure she’s fixing it. Pretty sure you’re going to get two plates for your trouble.”

  I go back to ignoring the shivers the man’s voice is giving me.

  I roll to my side, still holding on to Midget, hoping I can get up with the least amount of awkwardness possible.

  It takes two tries with my limited mobility and also because Midget suddenly notices the one cookie that landed away from the other ones and jerks to get that one just as I’m crawling to my knees.

  I don’t quite land on my stomach again, but I definitely don’t look like a competent basketball coach either.

  Not that I ever did.

  Still, I’m not going to give up my position to some big shot baller from high school who waltzed in and has everyone else in the town wrapped around his little finger just because he was an all-state champion twenty years ago.

  Who will probably be gone next year this time, and I’ll have to pick up his pieces.

  Right. I’m sure he won’t leave the ball team in pieces. And yeah, most of my bad attitude is probably because I know he’ll be able to do basketball better than I ever could dream about doing basketball.

  But in my defense, I do a lot of things with the team that are not just about basketball. I couldn’t explain that to him, because while I’m sure the man is great at basketball, I don’t think he appreciates everything that I think is important in life.

  It is just easier not even to get into that argument.

  And yes, one of the things I try to teach the team is that easier is not always better.

  Sometimes, I don’t always practice what I preach.

  Like now.

  I stumble up, tripping over the downed fence, but thankfully, Midget keeps me from falling yet again as I slam into her.

  She grunts, and yes, Great Danes grunt, and takes two or three steps to the side before she recovers and steadies herself. Thankfully, she’s old enough that she doesn’t think I’m trying to play a game with her.

  I steady myself on her, and she goes back to the cookies while Mrs. Thompson comes to the fence.

  “I’m so sorry about your fence, Mrs. Thompson,” I say.

  “I know you didn’t mean to run into it,” Mrs. Thompson says, holding both plates of cookies in my direction. Unfortunately, I only have one hand.

  I slide my hand under one of the plates. “Thank you so much. Sorry about the cookies too.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. These things happen.”

  Mrs. Thompson’s eyes slant toward Trey, and because I’m normally nice but I do have a shallow brat living in my head, I say, just a little slyly, “Maybe, if Trey is feeling super-duper nice, when he comes over to look at your leaky sink, he’ll take a look at this fence and maybe set it back up and fix it.”

  Okay, I know that might sound dumb, because I really have no clue what it’s going to take to fix that fence. I’m guessing Trey doesn’t have any more clue on how to fix the fence than he does on how to fix the sink, but since I wouldn’t have run into the fence without him chasing me, I do feel like it’s only fair that both of us should be responsible for fixing it.

  Like I thought it out loud, he says, “I suppose, since you are the one who knocked it down, I could possibly accompany you when you choose to come over and fix it for Mrs. Thompson.”

  And then I know exactly what I’m going to do with the fence.

  I smile. “Of course. Let’s make our first basketball practice here. And the girls will learn teamwork as we fix Mrs. Thompson’s fence.” His eyes narrow, and it’s not hard to read displeasure on his face. “And her sink,” I add.

  It’s my equivalent of offering an olive branch.

  He doesn’t really take it, just jerks his head.

  Mrs. Thompson either doesn’t feel the undercurrent or chooses to ignore it. “Since you’re heading in that direction, do you mind carrying Claire’s extra plate of cookies?” she asks, holding the plate out. Her timing isn’t the best, but Trey still takes it with his empty hand.

  I’m okay with that. I can tell from the way he is holding his own plate that he’ll be careful not to let the cookies slide around and touch the Jell-O.

  He might be a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, but even stick-in-the-muds have their places. And carrying two plates of cookies with Jell-O in the middle is a very good job for someone who is slightly OCD, which I’m suspecting that Trey is.

  I almost smile.

  “I guess we’ll try this again, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you so much for the cookies and have a nice evening,” I say. Midget has finished up the last of the cookies and is once again pulling on my hand, now all of a sudden in a big rush to get home.

  I kind of am too. I mentioned about the house burning down. Even though we’re only five houses down from the fire station and four houses down from my mom, who sold our family home to Cody and me when we married and bought the house directly beside the fire station.

  If there’s one thing my mom takes seriously in life, it’s being fire chief.

  Which is not exactly the reason I don’t want her at my house, but it’s still a good one.

  Chapter 7

  Claire

  WE WALK ABOUT FIVE steps before Trey says, “Are you sure you’re okay? That was quite a fall.”

  I don’t want him to be nice. I want him to be a jerk. I want him to be not what he looks like, which is a handsome middle-aged man who carries himself with confidence and has gorgeous blue eyes, a voice that gives me goosebumps every time he opens his mouth, and a smile that makes me forget my name.

  If he’s a jerk, I can forget all of those other things, but if he’s nice, it’s only going to add to my problem.

  If he’s going to be my assistant coach, it’s going to make everything awkward.

  Is it terrible to wish he was a jerk?

  “So, I’m getting worried. You didn’t answer me. Is there something seriously wrong? You’re not walking on a broken leg, are you?”

  I grunt a laugh over that and resist the urge to slant my eyes to his.

  No.

  He cannot be funny.

  If he’s nice and funny, I’m done. So done.

  High school crush all over again.

  At least our age difference isn’t as terrible now as it was back then. Normal high school seniors don’t crush on a kid in junior high.

  That’s just weird.

  “No, I’m fine. Mostly. My pride’s a little ragged right now, but I suppose it serves me right.” If he’s going to be nice, and even if he’s not, I need to be. Normally, nice is just a part of my nature. “I’m sorry I was such a jerk about the basketball position.” I try not to mumble. “I’m not a great basketball player.” I lift a shoulder because my hands are full. Thankfully, Midget isn’t pulling me as hard as she was. I think I’d be safe with letting her go, but I don’t want to take that chance. “But I really do enjoy working with the gi
rls. And yeah, I haven’t been that successful in winning games, but I feel like there’s more to sports than just winning.”

  He blows a short breath out between his lips, as though my comment about more than winning is a little bit ridiculous.

  To his credit though, he doesn’t argue with me.

  I wish he would. I could handle that better than nice.

  “I think there’s always character lessons to be learned in sports. Hard work. Sacrifice. Determination. Willingness to give your all and fight until the buzzer. So I think we’re in agreement on that.” Trey speaks with the true belief of one who is totally invested in everything he is saying.

  While I agree about the character traits he admires, I’m not necessarily in agreement with how one gets those traits.

  I never emphasize fighting to the buzzer and all that other rot.

  I am all about good sportsmanship and being kind to the other team.

  You know, we don’t fight, we don’t yank the ball away from people, if someone trips, we stop and help them up, even if it means we lose the ball or that the other team scores. Life is all about others and being kind. That’s my focus with the basketball team.

  Our practices probably look slightly different than what he’s thinking too.

  If the girls actually help with Mrs. Thompson’s fence, it will not be the first time we’ve had a practice outside of the gym.

  We’ve had a lot of practices in nursing homes.

  We leave the basketball at home, and more often than not, we play wheelchair square dancing or cutthroat games of bingo.

  I’m thinking Trey won’t be impressed.

  Maybe I should have a little chat with the girls before he shows up at practice.

  I’m still pretty sure Trey isn’t serious about this basketball thing and that he won’t be staying in Good Grief long.

  I know one way to find out.

  “So,” I say, trying to sound casual. “How long do you think you’ll be staying in Good Grief?”