Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Sneaking up on you? Are you serious?” She shifts on her heels, the morning sunlight shining behind her, making it impossible to see her face. “You literally crawled into a window like a thief yesterday.”
True. But still.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed still?” I ask ’cause it’s barely seven.
“I have to work. It’s Thursday.” She lingers, and I notice she’s carrying an armful of books. “What are you looking for?”
“Hammock. Gonna take a nap today.”
“I’ve never seen a hammock in here.”
I grunt in reply.
Posey laughs. “You sound like a caveman, speaking in segments.”
She sounds like a prude, speaking so proper. And that dress she’s wearing isn’t doing her any favors. White with black polka dots, she has an actual bow in her hair—a big white one—her black heels tap tapping impatiently on the concrete.
“Not sure if you’ll find one in there.”
“Can’t hurt to look, and if I can’t find one, I’ll order one on Amazon.” I pause. “What’s the address?”
She hesitates. “The same one you used to get yourself here yesterday.”
Cheeky!
I’m not expecting the sass from her, and it’s early, so I go back to rooting around the garage, moving things here and there so I can get to where I need to go.
I’ve been up and digging in boxes for at least a half hour.
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I try to look her in the eye, but she’s already turned and gone down the driveway, stopping at the red SUV at the curb, the blip blip sound of it unlocking reaching my ears.
“Not even gonna tell me goodbye and have a good day?” I grumble. “Rude.”
Left to my own devices now that she’s gone, I debate about mowing the lawn but discover there is no gas in the tank in the small red push mower. I rearrange a few of the things hanging on the wall, like the hedge clippers and the weedwhacker, then stack some boxes so they’re tidier.
A metal shelf holds what appears to be a collection of old watering cans. And I rearrange those, along with small jars of vegetable seeds. There’s a window looking out into the yard, and I clean that with an old rag that’s been discarded on the workbench.
Yeah, I’m definitely in my element.
The dingy little detached garage is more of a workspace than any place you would park a car. Rakes and shovels are leaning in the corner, and an old rusty snowblower is in the back far-right recesses.
I find buckets, pails, old holiday decorations—the big plastic kind my nan and granddad used to put on their lawn ’cause Nan was obsessed with holiday decorations and had to outdo the neighbors.
I dig him out and set him near the workbench for some reason. Nostalgia has me whistling and popping open the music app on my phone.
The snowman puts a smile on my face as I wipe it down with the rag, then decide to take one of the newly found buckets and fill it with water and soap, then begin scrubbing anew.
I wipe down decorations and shelves. Resume hunting for treasures.
Find two more boxes but turn up nothing good.
One more and I’m closer—it’s a lawn game. The kind with big darts for tossing and two hoop targets that aren’t legal anymore. I find a croquet mallet behind another shelf, but only one, wondering where the rest of them might have gone.
I toss a busted pink flamingo in the large trash bin.
A gnome that’s been repainted and ugly as fuck follows it.
Take a bike down off a wall rack that’s about forty years old for garbage day.
I’m about to give up when I pull a blue tote from the top shelf. Leaves and dust and who-knows-what-else fall in my eyes when I heave it down. Cracking open the lid, I reveal a net.
No, not a net.
A hammock.
“Sweet,” I mutter, pleased with myself for not being a quitter.
I take the hammock out and spread it out on the lawn, then unwind the hose and spray it off. Hang it on the porch railing to dry in the sun while I go back inside and warm up the leftover pizza from last night. Two slices.
No, three.
Posey has it wrapped up all nice like. It’s easy to zap in the microwave and tastes just as delicious as before. All three pieces go down easy.
I feel gross.
Dirty and tired after scavenging all morning, I rise to set my plate next to the sink and napkin in the trash, arm hair coated in a light smattering of dust.
Bored, I look at my watch. “Shit, I should take a shower.”
I have a conference call with Eli and his assistant at four and could stand to take a nap before then.
Doing nothing has me turning into a lazy fuck. I should probably set up a home gym while I’m here, now that I’ve cleaned out the garage. I doubt Posey would mind, and besides, Eli and Molly told me their home was my home.