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)
But one of the prior owners—either Brooks or another—decided to make a landscaped oasis in the back, complete with thick green grass, expertly placed bushes and plants, as well as a tiered deck and koi pond.
Currently, I’m trying to pulverize a stump left behind from what looks like a fallen tree. Both the front and back yards haven’t been properly cared for in a long time. Not that I know what I’m doing, but I recognize weeds and invasive vines that have woven through the good stuff.
Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit what the yard looks like. It’s why I lived in a condo in Pittsburgh. I didn’t care about having a lawn or watering roses.
But now, I live in the middle of fucking nature. I expect I’ll be spending a lot of time outdoors, mostly on the wooded trails, which have proven a challenging but effective place to run with elevation changes and obstacles. I have time on my hands, and since summer has started, might as well concentrate my efforts outdoors.
I swing the axe toward the stump, again and again, taking out chunks with every blow. When I get down to the roots, I switch to a shovel to dig around the broken-up fragments. It would have been a fifteen-minute job with a stump grinder, but I’ve got nothing but time, and a few hours of hard, backbreaking work appeals to me these days. Concentrating on getting that fucking stump out of the ground means I don’t have the bandwidth to think about anything else.
Clawing out a chunk of root with a pickaxe, I toss the debris in my wheelbarrow, now filled to the brim. I drop the tool and bend over to pick up the shirt I peeled off forty minutes ago to wipe the sweat from my face before discarding it again.
Grabbing the wheelbarrow handles, I push the load of roots and earthen clumps to the back edge of the property. I’ve been creating quite the pile that I intend to run through a wood chipper once I buy one.
Sweat again streams down my face as I make my way across the backyard. At the foot of the brush pile, I dump the contents of the barrow and am about to turn back for another round with the stump when I hear voices.
I go absolutely still, straining to pick up words.
A man and a woman are talking and getting closer. I set the wheelbarrow down, pull off my work gloves, and toss them inside.
Moving to the edge of the yard, I cannot only hear the voices but the snap and crackle of branches and leaves underfoot of whomever is walking this way.
I see them before their words become clear—a tall, thin man wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a blue work shirt. He’s carrying a clipboard tucked under one arm, and next to him is a blond woman talking and pointing at the trees.
Not just any woman, but the one I ran into over a month ago.
As in literally ran into her as she bounced off my body while I was jogging the trails. She’d been squatting behind a bush to pee, if the fact she was hauling up her pants gave any indication. She’d startled me as much as I’d startled her, and if I weren’t such a grumpy son of a bitch and pissed at the world in general, I would’ve found humor in the situation.
Regardless of my inner asshole, I’m not so far gone as a man to have not recognized that she was cute.
More than cute, actually.
Quite pretty with wavy, golden hair in two braids that hung over her shoulders, freckles spread over her nose, and honey-brown eyes that widened with fear. She wore uninspiring cotton panties under the shorts she was trying to pull up, but they only served to highlight the flare of her hips. Her snug T-shirt hugged a fabulous pair of tits, and as I took in her face again, I had to give credit to a full mouth that would inspire a million dirty fantasies.
Yeah, she was lush in all the right ways, but that’s about all she was. A wet dream.
Now she’s on my property—again—and it irritates me.
“Can I help you?” I call out, wanting to get their attention more than anything. No intention of helping them.
The woman startles, her head turning my way, her eyes flaring with recognition. “Oh… hi.” She moves through the trees, coming close with the man following behind. “It was Coen, right?”
“Yup.” I remember she said her name was Tilden and her friends called her Tillie, neither of which I care about.
“Sorry if we bothered you,” she replies hastily and points to the man. “John and I were just looking at trees on our shared easement.”
“Our shared what?” I ask.
“The easement my property shares with yours,” she explains, looking past me to my cabin and then back again. “Although I didn’t realize this was your property when we met on the trail before.”