Free Razor by Ronin Winters Page A

heavy things for him to move or tossed him outside to do maintenance around the clinic.
    Doc surprised her at Christmas with a nice bonus, saying she easily saved him ten times that amount since he didn’t need to hire anyone anymore.
    It was sweet and heady, being the object of a boy’s first crush, and she cherished it for the gift it was. In fact, she wished she could let it go to its final conclusion, where he would discover the girls around him and build the courage to flirt with them, be with them, until she faded from his affections slow and easy. No broken hearts. No lingering bittersweet attachments.
    But there was a reason these were called whirlwind courtships, and there was no time for her to let things finish slow and easy. Damon was being transferred, and though it had only been six months, she was going to do it. She was going to marry this man she’d been dating a short time and move across the country and uproot everything and if some nights she had to sit because she was shaking so bad from nerves, it wouldn’t stop her since something in her told her she needed to go.
    And one of the reasons she needed to go was this boy.
    Because these last few months, the thought began to take form in her mind that maybe Razor wasn’t going to start looking at girls his own age. That maybe he was too focused, too attached to her, and that she was hurting him, though she’d never meant to, would never want to.
    There, that look. Like she was the sun and the moon and he’d happily live in her orbit, all wrapped up in a cocky grin that said he was only waiting for her to get with the program and could she just get on with it, please?
    “Come on in.” She stepped back and held open the door to him. He’d been here a handful of times, usually helping her move things. He’d been big at fourteen, but now in full-blown puberty, she’d place a cash wager he grew between each time they met up. At twenty-one he’d probably be big enough to make football players feel inferior.
    “Do I smell pie?” He stepped in, quick and easy and comfortable, heading straight for the kitchen. Once he discovered she was the one making the cookies and pastries that came with her when she went to Doc’s, he pulled the puppy eyes at every opportunity to convince her to make food for him.
    “Yes, there’s pie.” Even she could hear the exasperated fondness in her voice. No wonder he took shameless advantage.
    Razor threw a grin over his shoulder, never stopping in his quest. Good thing she had made two, because he cut into the uncovered pie without another word, his slice a quarter of the pie, and without looking at her to see the raised eyebrow she gave him, only said, “Growing here.”
    That he was.
    He grabbed a fork and leaned against the counter, enjoying the food with a lack of manners that stayed on the charming side of the line without falling into disgusting . He did have manners. When he had been in Granny’s house, not even the church ladies could find anything to fault him with, though their sharp-eyed glances were looking for it. Granny herself patted him on the head and said it was a nice surprise to find a boy with manners, though it came with a side-eye that said the old woman wasn’t fooled for a second if he expected her to believe this was how he always acted.
    “How come you didn’t make my birthday bash?” he asked, the voice attempting casual and spring-green gaze focused on her. It was the directness of that gaze that allowed her to see the hurt he must have thought he was hiding, but here his youth betrayed him. He hadn’t yet built up the layers to shield his emotions, and they were as obvious as if he signed them in neon.
    “I’m sorry.” She’d wanted to, but she and Damon had been finalizing their plans, so many forms to sign and calls to make her hand still cramped occasionally from the abuse. Damon would have been furious if she suggested putting off the needed tasks to go to Razor’s house for