Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99921 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 333(@300wpm)
The man of few words glanced at me and kept walking.
“Oh…kay then. I guess you’ll carry it,” I mumbled.
Next door, he surveyed the front of the house. Spotting the open window, he leaned the ladder up against the wooden shingles and started to climb.
Apparently he’s also doing this for me…
I watched from below, silently appreciating the view of denim hugging a fine derriere. Maybe I was delirious after the long trip, but I couldn’t help thinking a quarter would bounce off that firm thing, and I had a sudden hankering for a juicy, ripe peach.
I shook the ridiculous thoughts from my head as Paul “the Peach” Bunyan slid open the second-floor window and climbed inside. Two minutes later, he opened the front door.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.”
The towering man folded his arms across his chest while standing in the doorway—apparently a favorite stance of his—and looked down his nose at me. “How do I know you’re really allowed to stay here?” he asked.
“Well, I own the house, so…”
He squinted. “When did you buy it? I didn’t see any for sale sign.”
“I didn’t buy it. I inherited it. Fifteen years ago. From my father when he passed away.”
“Who was the old lady that lived here then?”
“She was a tenant. My mom rented it to her after my dad died. I was only thirteen at the time.”
“What happened to her?”
“Mrs. Wollman? She moved into an assisted-living facility last month. It became too much for her to live alone and take care of a house.”
“I’ll say…” He looked over his shoulder. “When was the last time you saw the place?”
“That would be never. This is my first time visiting Laurel Lake.”
Paul glanced over his shoulder again and back at me. “Who’s your contractor?”
I frowned. “Contractor? No one. I figured I’d fix the place up myself while I stay here.”
His lip twitched. “This should be interesting.”
I might’ve demolished his mailbox, and he might’ve carried a ladder over and climbed into my house so I could get in, but I wasn’t going to let the sexy jerk ridicule me. I gripped my hips, and my eyes narrowed. “What’s so interesting about me doing the work on the house myself?”
His bemused smile deepened. “It needs a little more than paint and throw pillows.”
Now he was pissing me off. “I’ll have you know, I’m very handy. I have a degree in engineering.” I left off the fact that it was pharmaceutical science engineering.
“Whatever you say…”
“How about if I say thank you for the assistance this evening and you let me into my house?”
The jerk turned his body to make room for me to pass, though he didn’t actually step out of the doorway. Mustering as much self-assuredness as possible, I straightened my back, raised my chin, and tried to ignore the tingles in my body as I shimmied past him and into the house.
Paul Bunyan flicked on the lights. I’d already decided that no matter what the inside of the house looked like, I wasn’t going to give this man the satisfaction of seeing me react. But all the gumption in the world couldn’t have masked what hit me when I got a look at the place. I gasped out loud.
Oh.
My.
God.
I blinked a few times, hoping I was imagining things. Maybe this was a bad dream? It had been a long day and I was tired, so perhaps I went inside the cute little house with the sparkling interior and took a nap… But nope, I wasn’t dreaming. Newspapers were piled from floor to ceiling in one half of the kitchen. And the kitchen was not small. The stacks were a half-dozen rows deep, running probably fifteen feet in length and eight feet high. I was so shocked by the disturbing collection that it took me a moment to notice the other half of the kitchen. Cabinet doors—painted seafoam green—dangled from hinges. The tiled backsplash was missing half the tiles, and the sink was missing the faucet. And that was just what I could take in at first glance.
My mouth hung open. A little sprucing up? That’s what the real estate agent had said. An arched doorway led to the living room. I made the mistake of peeking through, and the house started to spin a little. It looked just as bad in there, if not worse than the kitchen. There was no ceiling or walls! No damn sheetrock! Only planks of wood framing with wires hanging all over. Worse, stuff was piled high in that part of the house, too. At first I thought it was more newspapers, but when I leaned in for a closer look, I realized I was wrong.
“Are those VHS tapes?”
I guess I hadn’t expected anyone to actually answer. In my stupefied state I’d forgotten all about Paul Bunyan, so I jumped when his voice boomed.