Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77005 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Mona inspects my face, and her expression softens to naked sympathy. “Sweetie, I got plenty of practice with sheep and wolves. Don’t you fret.”
It’s the only reason I agreed to this clown show. Because Mona is the shrewdest person I know. If anyone can handle the likes of Aidan Hughes, it’s her.
“Yeah, well, you just invited another wolf into our home, and this one doesn’t have an ankle monitor. Fingers crossed he’s less criminal.”
It’s already ten and way past my bedtime when I drag my tired ass out of the shower, only to find a peace offering. Mona left a fat slice of her homemade chocolate cake and a glass of water on my bedside table. The good news is I can easily be coerced into a better mood with sugar.
Grabbing the walkie talkie, something I’m quickly learning to love, I fiddle with the knobs. “Come in, Bandit,” I say, biting back the burst of laughter wanting to come out of me.
Smokey and the Bandit happens to be Mona’s favorite movie. I know this because she’s made me watch it at least a half dozen times already.
“Affirmative, Smokey,” comes through loud and clear. Of course I’m the mean cop, Smokey, who’s always trying to stop the fun-loving and charming Bandit from wreaking havoc. Yes, I can admit the nicknames are somewhat fitting here.
“Thank you for the cake. You’re the best. Over.”
“Roger that, Smokey.”
“Night, Bandit. Out.”
The smile has a heck of a time leaving my face.
Cake plate in hand, I wander to the window. My new bedroom is located in the back of the house, overlooking the paddocks. It’s the smallest in the house and barely fits my stuff, but it’s also the farthest from Mona’s master bedroom on the first floor. Strategically speaking, this is critical because God help me if I have to listen to her and Darby go at it all night.
As I’m laying waste to the cake, I take stock of the barn, the fencing, the surrounding foothills. It’s almost a compulsive behavior at this point––to check and double check that nothing needs fixing. That everyone and everything is safe and secure.
There’s a full moon tonight without a cloud in the sky. From here, I have a straight line of sight to Big Ben and Coco, the two draft horses we rescued from slaughter auction last year. They’re sleeping peacefully under the run-in shed. Ben was starved nearly to death when we got him. All skin and bones. How anyone could’ve mistreated our sweet giant, let alone allow him to suffer and starve, is beyond comprehension. I actually cried when I got in the cab of the pickup truck to drive him away from that awful place. On the bright side, Ben’s still one of the gentlest animals we have. He’s living his best life now, running free and hanging with his girlfriend.
Closer obsessive inspection reveals the fence around the smaller paddock is sagging to the left and the larger paddock next to it has a few broken boards. The barn roof looks like it needs to be repaired on the south side, and some of the siding needs to be replaced, too. There’s so much to do on any given day that a lot gets tossed to the wayside. Mona helps as much as she can, but most of the physical work falls on me to get done.
My cell phone rings and the screen flashes a picture of sixteen-year-old me and Jessica at the now infamous Beyoncé concert. No other person I know would have the audacity to call at this hour.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” I tell her. No hellos. No preamble. Straight to business.
“You’re answering the phone? We’re making real progress.”
“Aidan Hughes’ brother showed up at the ranch today. Unannounced.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I blame you.”
“What’s he like?” she coos. “Cruella’s always creaming over him.”
“You haven’t met him?”
“No. He’s never come to any of Aidan’s premieres.”
Hitting pause on my sugar overload, I place the plate down and throw myself on the double bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling as I contemplate how to answer.
“Older than his brother––maybe thirty-six or seven––and pushy, with a touch of serial killer sprinkled in for funsies.”
“You had me at serial killer.”
It’s safe to say Jess and I have complete opposite taste in men.
“Not my jam at all but… he’s, you know, got that thing.”
“Which thing? There are so many things to choose from.”
Objectively speaking, the man is hot. I can do that, be honest about the guy’s physical gifts in spite of our less than friendly introduction. Was he obnoxious? Yes. Is he going to be a serious pain in my ass while he’s here? Undoubtedly. Am I attracted to him? Hell no. And yet…
“Big dick energy.”
“That’s my favorite thing. So Cruella was right.”
“I feel like I’m twelve when he looks at me. I literally regressed into a babbling, fidgeting mess in minutes.” An uncomfortable pressure builds in my chest. It feels like I swallowed broken glass, which requires immediate soothing, so I shovel another spoonful of Mona’s cake in my mouth. “Ith deprething.” There’s not much that makes me depressed, but learning that all the supposed work I’ve done on myself drops me without notice as quickly as it did all because of a man qualifies. “I thought I was a grown-up.”