Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I shook off the memory and focused on the task at hand. “Show me this list.” I took the paper and perused it. “Get a new job? What for? I make okay money.”
Business had actually been booming since our local found-objects artist, Mal Forrester, had made it well-known where he sourced most of his materials. With the town sign made almost exclusively from parts found at my salvage yard, my place had become a revolving door. In fact, I needed to put added lot security on whatever this to-do list was if I wanted to keep my girl safe.
Stewie looked around awkwardly. “Well… I mean… selling junk for cash means you don’t really have a decent employment history on paper. We kind of need you to have a steady job, with things like insurance.”
“I have insurance,” I grumbled, skimming down the list. “Paint the house and fix up the front yard—yeah, figured those would be on here. Get rid of the—” I looked up at Stewie. “Get rid of the chickens?”
Stewie smiled nervously. “I mean, they’re not exactly classing up the joint, are they?”
I set my jaw. “I’m not getting rid of my chickens.” Then, thinking of Marigold, I added, “Unless the home inspection person specifically tells me they’re a problem.”
“Fine, fine.” Stewie shrugged. “Your call.”
Yes. It was. I nodded firmly and went back to the list. “Wait… Get a wife? Are you serious?”
Stewie didn’t even look embarrassed about this one. “C’mon, man, you have to know how much better this would go if you had the whole picture-perfect family going on. Get you one of them church wives. There’s like a million ladies down there who would love to—”
I held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. I’m gay. And I’m not about to change that for anyone.”
Stewie lifted an eyebrow. “Not even for Marigold?”
It was a gut punch, but he was right. “Do I need to be straight to get custody? Are things still that backwards around here?” God, I hoped not. Or else I needed to move and raise Marigold somewhere more accepting.
“Naw. Not really. But it is family oriented. A stable marriage is considered a much better place for a child than a single person living alone. Besides, what if something happens to you? Who’s going to look after the baby?”
I opened my mouth to remind him about my adoptive aunts, Birdie and Dot Johnson, but then I remembered they’d recently left on a four-week retirement trip to Europe. They’d come back in a skinny minute if I needed them to, but there was no way I could ask them to give up any more of their lives for me than they already had. And I wasn’t quite sure putting two octogenarians down as my back-up custody arrangement was going to fly.
Stewie kept going on and on about what a difference a stable marriage would make in gaining custody of my niece. “Plus, if your husband had a stable income and benefits, we could claim you as the stay-at-home parent, and problem solved, right? You need the appearance of respectability. This list is going to get you as close to it as possible, but…” He sighed. “I’m not sure it’s going to get you there without something big, you know?”
Just then an old red Mustang came crunching down the drive. It wasn’t the good kind of old Mustang, but the 1980s kind that didn’t look much different from a Toyota Corolla from the same era. The owner probably needed to search my lot for engine parts. I wondered idly what I might have to direct him to.
But when the driver’s door opened and a slender man stepped out in a prim button-down shirt and khaki pants… I recognized the narrow set of his shoulders right away.
It was the cutie from the courthouse who’d helped me calm Marigold down and loaned me his tie while I’d blithered on like an idiot—the one I’d never thought I’d see again, until I’d literally mowed him down outside Mal’s tent the other day, which had been like adding insult to injury. I’d gotten Parrish’s name and pertinent info from Malachi, and I’d sort of debated hunting him up to thank him for all his help, especially since his pep talk had inspired me, but I’d figured I’d probably only find a new way to embarrass myself.
I stared at him. What was he doing here? From what Mal had said, this guy’s family owned a hundred or so barbecue restaurants all across the South and were Brooks and Paul’s biggest client. Surely this clean-cut corporate type didn’t know his ass from an alternator, so he couldn’t possibly be here searching for parts.
I watched as he went around to the passenger-side door, and I swear he was talking to himself in a low voice about forgetting to write down the reheating instructions. He leaned over, showcasing the most delicious little tight ass on earth, and stood back up with some kind of baking pan in his arms covered in tinfoil.