Chapter 2 #2
She fans her face like she’s burning up. Meanwhile her eyes have a playful twinkle to them that practically blares BAD IDEAS COMING. “Experienced, maybe. Seasoned . That’s hot.”
“I don’t even think I’m capable of something like that.” It comes out soft, and a part of me wishes I could take it back. But this is my best friend. My ride or die. I can trust her with anything.
With my divorce final, it means I am free to do what I want, with whomever I want, but only if I felt free, and I don’t. Not yet.
Quinn takes me by the shoulders and locks eyes with me. “You’re perfect, Megs. Just as you are. Russel is a fool who took you for granted. He never treated you right, and I don’t just mean in the bedroom.”
“You’re right.”
She pulls me into a hug. “I hate that it still hurts.”
“Me too.” I fight the emotions starting to sting my nose. “But hey, we’re not gonna mope, right?” I step back from her and smile.
“Right.” She beams. “Quick shower, a sunset toast, then let’s paint this one-horse town red. ”
When I join Quinn downstairs, she’s putting the finishing touches on two of her famous homemade margaritas.
We carry them to the deck, where the lowering sun is kissing the sky with crimson, melting one shade at a time to an inky purple. I’m so distracted by the pretty view that I don’t see the rattlesnake until Quinn shrieks.
My drink goes flying and Quinn grabs me around the middle, yanking me back inside. Heart pounding, I slam the sliding glass door shut.
The big brown snake is coiled between two of my big flowerpots. Why didn’t I hear its rattle?
“Wait a minute,” Quinn says. “It’s not moving.”
Reality hits me. I ball my fists and let out an anguished groan.
“What?” Quinn asks.
I slide the door open and stride over to the rubber snake. I’m so stupid.
Next door, a hearty guffaw draws my attention.
I glare at Linden, who is staring down at me, his eyes bright.
“Not funny!” I shout.
“Come on,” he says, holding his middle. “It was so fake. Rattlesnakes don’t coil like that at night when it’s cold. They don’t have the energy. If he was real, he’d slink off somewhere and hide.”
“Like I’m supposed to know that!”
“Now you’ll never forget it. I’m helpful like that.”
I pick up his stupid fake snake and fling it in his direction. Then I gather my empty cup and storm back inside.
Quinn is waiting with another drink.
“Now do you see why I can’t stand him?” I take a long gulp of my margarita. It’s zesty and perfectly sweetened, the bite from the tequila speaking directly to the headache brewing at the base of my skull .
“He’s still hot as blazes.”
“He’s still a jackass.”
“So this was payback for deflating his basketballs?” she asks, unable to keep a straight face.
“Probably,” I grumble.
Two margaritas later, I call us a cab.
“Remember, tonight is about you being a free woman,” Quinn says as we touch up our lipstick in the guest bathroom. “Whatever your little heart desires, you take it, okay?”
“I’m not bringing home a cowboy.”
She gives me a saucy wink.
Outside my front window, the cab pulls into the driveway so we snatch up our purses and head out the door.
“Who’s playing tonight?” Quinn asks.
“Boxcar Doves,” I reply as we climb into the backseat of the cab. From Linden’s driveway comes the steady dribbling of his basketball. Maybe that means he’ll be done by the time we get home. One can only hope .
“Local?”
“Yeah, actually. Two sisters. Charlotte and Morgan Hannah. There was a whole write up on them in the Journal.” I roll down my window to let in the fragrant evening breeze.
It’s one of the things I love about Finn River.
What I missed most. How rich and earthy it smells here.
In the spring, I swear I can smell the snowmelt and the flowers pushing through the tough mountain soil.
“According to Annaleise, they’re really good. ”
“Too bad she can’t make it tonight,” Quinn says with a pout.
“Might be better for Finn River that it’s just us.
” I bump her shoulder, and she laughs. Annaleise is the one friend I’ve stayed in touch with since Dad and I moved away from Finn River when I was twelve.
She’s a reporter for the Finn River Journal and lives for adventure like Quinn, a quality that made them instant friends at my bachelorette party—and got us kicked out of two bars that weekend.
We reach the top of my driveway just as Linden fires off a shot to his basketball hoop.
In the bright outdoor lighting, with his arms arched overhead, it’s like catching him in the flash of a photographer’s bulb.
He’s changed into a pair of mesh athletic shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt that gives me an eyeful of his shoulder and forearm muscles and his tattoos.
His face is a little sweaty, and his dark eyes are fixed on the hoop.
Next to me, Quinn gives an appreciative hum.
I ignore her. What kind of person plants a fake rattlesnake certain to scare the shit out of their neighbor? Did he relish my scream of terror?
The ball drops through the hoop with a soft swish , but Linden’s not watching it anymore. His dark eyes are on me.
My cheeks heat and the knot at the base of my spine twists a little tighter.
Linden gives me a cocky arch of his brow before I can force myself to turn away.