Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80495 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Of course, I have some rules.
There’s no crossing the imaginary halfway line. Cameras are installed in the corners of my room for everyone’s safety and protection, and a contract is negotiated and signed before said visitor arrives. I have a fake age within five years listed on my profile—older, not younger—and my one stipulation is that anyone coming has to be over the age of sixty. I also don’t have a profile picture. Just a very honest physical description. It took me a while to get going, but then my clients were nice enough to rate me, and a few stars meant more regular work.
Though, I shouldn’t call it work. Jesus.
Long story short, I’m still saving up. I have the walls and grade beams pinned in place with a heck of a lot of wood supports and blocking. I have everything dug out, I have the holes drilled in all the cement, which I had to rent a crazy huge hammer and concrete drill bits to do, and I have most of the rebar in place. That all cost a hand and a foot because the dang barn is two thousand square feet, but my biggest expense is going to be the cement itself. I can’t mix up that much concrete, so I’m going to have to pay trucks to come and workers to do it because I’d mess it up and by working alone, there’s no way I could keep up before it set. If I’m spending all the money, I want it to look decent when I’m done. I want the barn to be saved, not me screwing it up at the last minute and finding out that I did something wrong and it’s entirely unfixable and all of it was just for nothing.
Anyway. I’m currently six thousand eight hundred and seventy-six dollars short of my main goal.
I’m exceptionally dedicated to getting this done so I can stop renting out the other half of my bed to strangers while I sleep on the other side because it’s weird, and if anyone found out I was doing it, it would be even weirder. But…I have standards.
And the one I don’t ever waver on, like EVER, is the over-sixty clause.
Which brings me to right now. The good old present and my present state of confusion and distress. Because I’m standing here at the front door, utterly dumbfounded.
This guy isn’t over sixty. I’d bet my left butt cheek that he’s not over freaking fourty-something.
I’d guess he’s a traveling salesman or someone peddling some kind of information, except for the fact that I’m almost impossible to find if you don’t know where to look or have the directions on how to get here, which makes it pretty inconvenient for most people. The shiny new rental that is so far above standard domestic sedan in the driveway, the expensive cologne wafting off this guy, and the five thousand dollar designer suit tell me this is indeed a client.
“What the hell?” I pull back and crouch down into ass-kicking mode. I’m perfectly capable of defending myself out here. That wasn’t always the case, but since having to leave my old life behind and reinvent myself, I’ve been taking online self-defense classes. Yes, they work, and yes, I am a badass bitch. “You’re not over sixty, you toad. You better get back in your car and leave. I’m warning you. Don’t make me get my pet crawfish out. You’ll get a double ass kicking then.”
One brow goes up. He stares at me, looking like the devil and god of death. He’s exceptionally unmoved and unafraid, even by the threats of the crawfish. He’s so super freaking hot in that black on black on black against frosty blue eyes, black hair, sharp features, and a really tall, muscular body.
This guy might not be over sixty, but he’s a different number entirely. As in, he’s a ten.
He’s clean and polished, but there’s also something extremely terrifying about him. Something…off.
Whatever it is, it appeals to me in all the wrong ways.
Don’t lecture me about my past, throwing all sorts of red flags about guys that are off. My ex happened to have zero red flags and was totally normal. Until he wasn’t. He wasn’t big, mean, or scary-looking. He wasn’t the least bit frosty. He was warm and personal, and even my family liked him. He duped us all. With him, what you saw wasn’t what you got.
There’s something about this stranger that says I’m going to get exactly what I see.
That said, criminals are apparently my thing in a subliminal, unconscious sort of way. I hope this guy made his money in legit, safe, non-environmentally-and-other-people-harming ways.
Still, I get alarm bells.
I also get va-jay-jay bells.
No. Those are not a thing. My lady bits can’t buzz loud enough or wild enough to make actual noise. I think.