Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136247 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 681(@200wpm)___ 545(@250wpm)___ 454(@300wpm)
“You know the saying. If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” I stand and hold out a hand, helping her up.
I force myself not to check her out completely. Or let myself think too hard about how sweet her little hand feels in mind.
Fuck.
This. Is. Tory. You. Jackass.
I remind myself for the umpteenth time.
Childhood friend. Rich and cultured. Walking nostalgia bomb.
Probably the darling of every rich Chicago big shot on Tinder by now, if she even bothers going stomping around there for dates. I doubt it. She’s probably got a stable of jacked brain surgeons lined up back home.
Every reason in the world why don’t should be the word of the day.
Don’t even stare at her yellow-and-white-checkered shirt, tucked into her blue jeans, how it highlights her trim curves to perfection.
Don’t even pretend to get attached.
Don’t be stupid.
“So,” I say, sucking in a fortifying breath of fresh air. “You just leave the goats and come back? No supervision or anything?”
“As long as they’re fenced in, it’s all good,” she says, stretching her arms over her head, tempting my eyes to skim over wicked places I have no business gawking at.
I watch the entire tribe of goats go rummaging deeper into the brush. Unlike other animals, they’ll eat up everything before touching a blade of grass.
Owl ignores the critters as he walks beside us, seemingly just as ready as we are to get out of here.
“I’ll drive out here and check them every day,” she says. “Plus I have a few other properties to check out, make sure there’s nothing poisonous to the goats before I drop them off.”
“Like what?”
“Mountain laurel and swallow-wort.”
I raise a brow. “Don’t think either of those grow here in North Dakota.”
“The resources I’ve checked say they don’t.” She flashes another dangerously adorable grin. “But I have to look like I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you’re doing a better job than Dean. He’d probably forget to come back for the goats and leave ’em to eat up the Barnets’ pumpkins, too.”
“I mean...outdoing Uncle Dean doesn’t take much.” She laughs, bumping my arm with her shoulder.
There is no denying that, but I say, “He’s a good guy. Don’t get me wrong. He’d give you the shirt off his back if he thought you needed it.”
Although the whole town knows Dean, his schemes, and his famous lack of ambition, he’s helpful in a pinch and generally well liked.
“Oh, I know he would, and I love him for that. For being who he is. We don’t all get the luxury.”
I look at her, cocking my head. Somehow, the shift in tone tells me there’s more going on in her life than a healing visit back to these old small-town stomping grounds.
Tory shrugs. “What can I say? I’m happy to help out, and it gets me out of the house. Away from Granny for a few hours.”
“Aw, she can’t be that bad. Whirlwind, sure. Pain in the ass, no.”
“I love her to pieces, but she’s seventy...not sixteen like she thinks she is.”
I chuckle because it’s true.
Granny Coffey is as well known in Dallas as her son Dean, and even better liked.
“When it comes to Granny Coffey, I’d have her pegged at twenty-one, not sixteen. She likes her wine too much to revert back under drinking age.”
Just like that, Tory grins, her teeth showing real bright in the sun. “She’s a fiend. And you won’t believe what we take to the grocery store.”
“What, her Nova? That’s one sweet car.” Cherry red, her 1979 Chevy Nova Super Sport is a classic and looks astonishingly brand new.
Kept inside and only driven to church and the market on Sundays by a little old lady is no lie for that ride.
“I wish. We’ve got ourselves a tandem bike. Complete with a flower-painted basket on the front and two wire baskets on the back. Bright red, of course.”
I can’t help smiling at that. “How does your knee handle it? Sounds like a lot of work keeping up with that woman.”
“Actually, my physical therapist approved it, so a bicycle built for two is how we roll. Matching helmets, too, with daisies she painted on just like the ones on the basket.”
Laughing together this time, we arrive at the gate. I look at the drainage ditch, knowing how much she’s been favoring that leg.
The trench is steep, and the grass will be slick now after the rain. Knowing what I’ll have to do, I open the gate and hold it open for her and Owl.
Once they step through the opening, I close the gate and lock it.
Then, before she can protest, I hoist her up and start plodding down the ditch.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “Gonna be a bumpy ride.”
“Quinn! What do you think you’re doing? I’m not that feeble.” Even as she protests, her arms fold tightly around my neck and I smile. “Put me down this instant—I’m too heavy!”