Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 373(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
“He will live to see another day,” I said, tossing the carrot to Samson, who immediately started violently shaking it, threatening to take down the display shelf full of dog treats and cute little holiday bandanas with little turkeys and pumpkins on them.
“So, where are you off to?” Tucker asked. “Hot date?” he asked.
God, no.
No dates.
Never again, in fact.
I was halfway to becoming re-virginized at this point. And I was totally okay with that.
“Yep. A hot date with some Chinese takeout and a thousand piece puzzle.”
“Oh, you wild child, you,” he teased, his blue eyes bright.
“Living right on that edge,” I agreed, gathering my things, and stuffing them into my bag. “Do you need me to do anything before I head out?” I asked.
“I’m all set,” he said. “Send me a pic of the puzzle when you finish it.”
Tucker was kind enough to call my puzzles my ‘creative outlet.’ This was an especially kind comment coming from someone who actually wrote really beautiful poetry. We often found half-finished poems scribbled on the edges of paperwork or on sticky notes stuck to the bottom of our shoes.
Alas, I didn’t have an actual creative bone in my body, much to my chagrin. I’d always been envious of people who could write, paint, draw, sing, or anything like that.
“That’s Maisie’s owners,” I told Tucker, seeing the red SUV pulling in as I slipped Samson’s leash on, and started to push out of the door. “Have a good night!”
Tucker’s words were on my mind as I made my way toward the house, Chinese food scents filling up the car, thinking about the kitchen table with the puzzle board set upon it.
You wild child, you.
He’d just been teasing.
He meant nothing by it.
But the words stung the more I thought about them.
Because a part of me, a bigger part of me than I felt comfortable even acknowledging anymore, craved experiences and fun.
I just couldn’t have that.
Quiet and calm were safe.
And that was the most important thing to me, I reminded myself as I pulled into the driveway of the little ranch I’d been renting for the better part of this year.
It was a sweet little house with a fenced backyard for Samson to run off his energy in, and a fully furnished interior, so I didn’t have to worry about spending any more money than absolutely necessary to stay there.
Though I did sometimes see a cute lamp, or a great shade of paint, and wish I could make the place a little more my own.
Someday, I reminded myself as I parked, grabbed the Chinese, then unclipped Samson’s leash, knowing he would follow me right in through the garage like usual.
He was always beat on the nights after he came to the daycare with me, spending his days playing with all the other dogs. He would beeline for his orthopedic bed, curl up, and sleep for hours before even thinking about things like going outside and having dinner.
I kicked off my shoes in the mud room, then made my way right into the kitchen.
It was a small space, but was big enough for one person to move around and make a meal in. It was kind of dated with its dark wood cabinets that made the space feel a bit claustrophobic, and the stainless steel fridge didn’t match the black dishwasher or the white oven.
But, hey, I was renting this place on a song.
I wasn’t about to complain that it didn’t fit my aesthetic.
“What, bud?” I called at the little whimpering noises Samson was making from the living room.
He had a love/hate relationship with the squirrels that were loving the hell out of the acorns in the trees in the front yard, little furry tails coming back a hundred times a day to snatch up some acorns, and take them away to store for the winter.
“Is it the squir—“ I started as I moved out into the living room.
Where my smile fell immediately.
Because there on my couch… was a man.
I gasped, rushing back into the kitchen, and snatching a frying pan out of the drainboard before making my way back toward the living room, my hand going to my pocket for my phone, only to stop before I could fish it out.
I couldn’t call the police.
That wasn’t an option.
So… what the hell was I supposed to do about this?
Before I could even form an idea, though, the amazingly—in this case, annoyingly—friendly Samson rushed over, and started to lick the stranger’s face.
And, I mean, fine.
It was a good face.
Like… male model good.
Those cheekbones, a chiseled jaw, and a great, high forehead leading up to some lush dark hair.
But being gorgeous didn’t mean he was any more welcome in my house.
The intruder became alert with a start, his big chocolatey-brown eyes going wide, confused, as he looked at Samson, then me. With my frying pan lifted high like I was going to hit him with it.