Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I eye the raccoons at the bottom of the steps. They freak me out a little, but thankfully, as I hit the steps leading down, they have enough sense to run under the deck.
The deer lift their heads as I step into the yard, watching me, their tails twitching. As I move closer, they bolt into the forest.
I approach the first white block, bending over to inspect it. It’s definitely salt, and I can see it’s been mounted on a spiral stake and spun into the ground. There are several piles of some type of feed that looks like a mixture of corn and sunflower seeds.
“Son of a bitch.” I unscrew the first stake. It takes me a good minute to get it all the way out, and I inspect it carefully. I somehow doubt salt licks are fabricated on stakes that go into the ground. Most I’ve seen are on elevated posts. I’ve no doubt these are homemade.
I glance out at the glowing neon bird feeders. Just as I have no doubt those were recently painted by a certain artist who lives in the area.
Turning back toward my deck, I see the raccoons are again at the dish, and my deck is still overrun with rodents and birds. Christ, it’s going to take me forever to clean this shit up.
I pause a moment.
Oh, fuck that. I’m not cleaning it up.
Dropping the salt lick to the ground, I head for the forest that separates our properties, through the trees decorated with neon bird feeders with seed spread all over the ground, finally emerging on the side of her yard. Her cabin sits fifty yards away.
Tilden Marshall is about to regret tangling with me.
I stride angrily across the yard, still wet with morning dew, the air heavy with humidity. It’s going to be hot today, and I expect it will take quite a bit out of her to clean up her handiwork.
I mount the porch two steps at a time, ignore the doorbell, and pound on her door.
If that woman is smart, she’ll hide in the back until I go away. Instead, the door swings open and there she stands, wearing a smug smile. “Good morning,” she says brightly.
She had to have been up awfully late last night bombarding my property, but she looks fresh and well… lovely. She’s got on jean shorts, frayed at the hem, but they don’t ride very high up her legs—mid-thigh at the most—a mustard-colored T-shirt that’s got dried paint on it, and a red bandana tied in an old-fashioned triangle on her head. Her curly blond hair streams out and cascades down her back.
Same as the last two times I saw her, she has no makeup on her face, which makes the freckles over her nose incredibly distracting.
“You’ve got about five minutes to get your ass over to my yard and clean up your shit.”
She tips her head and smiles quizzically. “I’m sorry… but why would I be doing that?”
“Don’t play stupid with me, Tilden.” I emphasize her name so it’s clear we aren’t friends. “You know damn well you turned my yard into a zoo.”
She frowns, lower lip sticking out a bit. “I don’t understand,” she says sweetly. “You said you were a naturalist. What was it you called yourself? A modern-day Snow White? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if a bluebird landed on your shoulder any moment now.”
“Fuck,” I yell, spinning away from her in frustration, then turning right back around again. I step into her, pointing a finger in her face, probably the height of rudeness, but I don’t care. “You are the most annoying, if not the craziest, woman I’ve ever met. You’ve got no respect for other people, you’re self-centered and bratty, you’re probably not even that great of an artist so it’s a waste of money to build this studio, you wear granny panties, and that bandana looks stupid in your hair. You think the world owes you, and you don’t care—”
Tilden’s hand slams into my chest and I brace, waiting for her to push me backward off her porch. Rather, her fingers curl into my shirt, nabbing fistfuls of cotton, and she jerks me forward. Ordinarily a little thing like her couldn’t move a mountain like me, but I was leaning forward while I berated her—trying to intimidate as she’d accused me of before—and I’m off-balance.
Before I can stop my momentum, she’s up on her tiptoes, mashing her mouth against mine in a surprise kiss that has my head reeling.
I jerk roughly away, knocking her hands from my shirt. Glaring, I demand, “What the fuck was that?”
She shrugs, tucking her hands into her pockets nonchalantly. “Figured it was the best way to get you to shut up and stop your ridiculous tirade.”
Christ, she’s weird, and why do my fucking lips tingle?