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)
“If you answered your dang phone, I wouldn’t need to be here ruining my new shoes, would I?” She’s obviously still salty about her shoes so I tamp down the urge to chuckle at her expense.
“Who answers calls anymore? Learn to text like the rest of civilized society.”
“I did text, you savage. Maybe check your phone more than once a week.”
She has me there. I’ve been enjoying my comfortably numb bubble for the last few years, and any intrusion from the outside world feels like a chore now.
Jess’ gaze runs up and down my body, her expression pained. “You’re wearing overalls.”
The woman is positively militant about fashion.
“They’re practical.”
She shakes her head. “I thought you were going through a phase when you took this job.” She glances around. “Who lives like this?”
“You mean who lives in the country, enjoying fresh air and physical safety? I do. I live like this. And it’s a phase I plan on continuing forever.”
I love Ojai. I love everything about it. More importantly, however, it’s been the safe place I desperately needed. Nothing would ever compel me to move back to L.A. Not even the food trucks.
A donkey’s very loud bray cuts the awkward pause in conversation.
“Your life is officially an episode of Naked and Afraid.”
“With a five-star spa resort in town?” I counter, compelled to defend my little slice of heaven. “More like Naked and Pampered.”
“It’s just so,” she rubs her manicured fingers together, testing the grit in the air, “grimy.”
That fact alone makes her visit all the more suspicious. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here or are we going to play Truth or Dare?”
Chewing on her bottom lip, her gaze slides over to meet mine. “Yeah, yeah… we need to talk.”
“Jessica…”
Nodding. Some more nodding. Her perfectly-airbrushed mask falls, and she suddenly looks nervous. “Okay, so I did a thing.”
My smile dips. All the way down. To my feet.
“You did a thing?” It goes without saying that nobody here assumes it’s a good thing. “What kind of a thing did you do?”
“You know who Aidan Hughes is, right?”
I can’t even pretend to be offended by her question because celebrities in general and current news about them are not at the top of the list of things I give a flip about these days. “The actor? Yeah, the guy’s a train wreck––”
“Exactly!” The devious spark in her eyes tells my well-developed survival instincts that it’s legitimately time to be scared. “Anyway, Cruella reps him––”
“No,” comes out hard and fast because Cruella is her codename for her evil boss, and I know a trap when I hear one.
“I haven’t asked you anything yet.”
“Whatever it is––the answer is no.”
“Twisted sisters,” she says forcefully if not a little desperately.
And shit.
Jess and I have been friends since the day her family moved to the San Fernando Valley and into the apartment next door to the one I shared with my dad. I was an only child hungry for someone to bond with, and Jess was one in practice since her older brother Robert had enlisted in the Marines.
We quickly bonded over our general grievances of our parents––my singular one parent being largely absent and her still-married parents being overbearing. That and our mutual love of adventure.
We made a pact all those years ago to look out for one another. This pact included a safe word: twisted sisters. Were it ever invoked, the other person would have to agree to the request, no questions asked. The one stipulation was that it had to be something important––a life-changing event.
“You’re calling it?” I ask, forced to double check my disbelieving ears.
“I’m calling it.” She glances up into the scorching sun, face pinched, and pulls her shades back down over her eyes. “Can we do this inside? My recently-lasered skin is hating me right now.”
Granting mercy, I head for the farmhouse. “Follow me in the car,” I tell her.
The black pencil skirt she’s wearing won’t allow for more than an inchworm step. It would take her twenty minutes to cover the hundred feet from the paddock to the farmhouse, and I’m anxious to get this over with.
The main house is everything you’d expect a hundred-year-old California farmhouse to look like. The ivory-painted concrete exterior is marred with chips and cracks. The red, clay-tiled roof has a number of busted and missing tiles, and the oak, wraparound porch has seen better days. There’s a lot of wear and tear, but there’s also plenty of charm. When I moved in three years ago, it was falling apart. Some elbow grease and a lot of help from a talented local handyman has transformed it into something special. A place I’m lucky to call home.
On the porch, I kick off my muck boots and push the screen door open. Headed straight to the kitchen, I motion for Jess to follow. One of the largest rooms in the house, it was built big enough to feed all the men working the ranch over the years. Close to fifty at one point. Now it only feeds two.