Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tess
I blink at the cottage, the weight of my bags suddenly forgotten. Once fitting for a storybook—a cute one with a grandmotherly mouse who wears a long braid and a frilly apron over her tie-dyed tee, and Birkenstocks— my grandmother’s home now stands in ruins… shambles? Disarray?
Huh.
The once storybook farm cottage stands in… dishevelment?
Ruins was better.
I sigh. The puzzle piece click I used to feel when finding just the right word is a distant memory.If muses are real, mine’s on sabbatical. At least I hope it’s just a sabbatical and not retirement.
“And you’re stalling, Tess,” I say to myself, taking the stairs up to the porch.“The cabis halfway down the road by now, you have no choice.”
The cottage no longer looks as if my Gran will pop out, her nose dusted with baking flour, her cheeks rosy and her eyes just a bit glassy from drink.
Dropping my bag at the door, I swipe the blur from my eyes and turn away, taking just another moment before I face the inside.
At least the view is still amazing.
The sun, low in the sky, leaves a smear of orange across the ocean right to the red sandy shore. Breathing in the briny air, I watch the dancing grass fields and let the breeze twirl around me, tossing my hair as if inspecting me after my long absence.
I’ve missed it here. I should have come back sooner.I should have handed Gary everything and come home the moment Gran sounded off instead of waiting until the social worker called—until the cancer had spread and put her in hospice.
Turning back to the cottage, I frown. Climbing perennials, mostly Sweet Autumn Clematis, untamed by Gran, make the cottage look neglected and abandoned, but as I inspect the bones of the veranda, I decide the actual condition isn’t so bad. It’s just overgrown, not ramshackle. There’s no give to the porch steps, no sagging boards, or wiggling railings. Nothing a good day’s hard work won’t cure. I note the railings and boards look newer than I remember. Gran obviously had some work done.
I squint at the semi-circle stained-glass window above the rounded wooden door—flowers surrounded by greenery, handmade by my grandmother. Is it crooked? Is the door off the hinges? I look down. The porch is slanted and becoming more so by the minute.
I scrub a hand over my face before grabbing for the wall. It’s not the window, not the door or even the porch—it’s me. I’m crooked.
It’s been a long day of travel but that’s not the problem. The problem is, I can’t recall my last meal.
I grab my bags, brush away the overgrown greenery and head straight for the kitchen. I know there’s fresh eggs and milk in the fridge because Jay informed me and that’s all I need right now.
Instead of cooking though, I find a gift basket of baked goods and other staples from Jay’s mom. That’s how people are here. They take care of each other—even strangers. Like when Gran was suddenly saddled with a ten-year-old kid who had a chip on her shoulder. So many people pitched in getting Gran what I needed, offering anything they could to help us during the adjustment. Even pushing Paige and I together since it was summer, and I needed a friend. I doubt I would have made any friends otherwise.
I eat one of the granola bars from the basket, then make my way through the small cottage, carefully pulling off sheets to reveal much of what I remember of Gran’s cozy home. Besides a pile of mail at the front door beneath the mail slot, a little dust and a general stale smell, it’s still the same. And two of those things can be remedied, even while travel weary.
I scoop up the mail, opening the door wide enough to let the fresh sea air in and start flipping through the letters absently. There are typical advertisements and credit card offers, several letters from a company called Wolfe Construction and some handwritten envelopes. One on mauve stationary with the Bridges Hospice logo stamped on the corner. It’s where Gran spent her last few months—something I don’t want to think about right now. I tuck it beneath the other envelopes, likely all condolence cards, and put them in the little drawer of the occasional table by the door. I drop the letters from Wolfe on top of the table and toss the rest of the junk mail in the trash can next to the table.
It’s dark in the cottage as the sun sinks lower into the sea, so I throw open the curtains letting long shadows imprint on the dusty pine slat floors. Opening the windows to air the place out further, I forget the mail and spend the next few hours getting lost scouring the cottage. Earbuds in, I sweep, dust, scrub floors and wash the linens.
When I’m done, I dust my hands together and stand in front of the open door, enjoying the ocean breeze. “That’s better,” I sigh. Only now it looks as if Gran will dance out of the kitchen doorway, cheeks pink, slippers slapping loudly against the pine floor and ask if I need a nip of something to relax me.
“You’re always so uptight, Tessie-girl,” she’d add, pulling me to dance. I’d groan, but dance with her, complaining the whole time. I wouldn’t complain now though. I’d sing and dance with her all night long no matter how exhausted I was.
Plunking myself downonto her floral chair, I lean back and grab the book Paige gave me from my purse. If I don’t distract myself I’m going to fall apart, and Tess Harlow does not crumble. And as I learned on the plane here, a good erotic romance distracts in the best possible way.
I’m just diving into chapter eight, when something touches—no, scratches at my toe. I scream, jumping up and knocking the chair back with a clatter, the book flying to the floor. “Please don’t be a mouse, please.” I close my eyes tightly a moment as I send the wish into the universe and when I open them, a flash of white flaps out of the room.
I grab the first thing I see, a large knitting needle. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, but I feel better with it in my hand.
“Okay, whatever you are, I’m coming, so you’d better get the hell out the way you came in.” Glancing at the needle in my hand I add, “I’ve got a gun.” I move slowly toward the kitchen and then around the corner.
What the…
I blink.
A large chicken stands, head cocked, side-eyeing the dustpan on the floor by the back door. The medium-sized doggy-door still swings, the words Jake and Roosters Only , written in what can only be described as ‘chicken-scratch’ over it. I hold the knitting needle higher and blink a few more times, thinking I must be delirious. But nope, it’s still a chicken, and now it’s pecking at my dustpan.
How do you get rid of a chicken? I was prepared—as prepared as one can be—for a rodent, maybe a small bird, but a chicken?
Can chickens be rabid?
I take a step forward and the bird bobs its head, blinking its beady eyes, the large red head comb and chin wattle wag with each bob.
“You’re a rooster,” I state as if the bird wasn’t aware. “Shoo! Shoo! Go home now…” I glance at the doggy-door and add, “Jake.”
Jake—the hopefully not rabid rooster—eyes me but doesn’t move, and I instantly recall my grandmother in the hospice talking about her friend Jake and how I’d need to make sure he was well taken care of because he’s not like a normal chicken—he needs love. I’d brushed it off as morphine-induced crazy-talk, but now as I stare at the pure-white-feathered mother-clucker I understand she was actually coherent. As coherent as someone can be who has a pet chicken. Is chicken the species, or the female version? Like a cow? I give my head a shake at my ridiculousness. No, a female is called a hen… Arg, and none of this is important when you have a rooster loose in your damn house.
“You need to leave right now,” I say sternly and take a quick step toward the bird before I lose my nerve. Jake suddenly straightens, thinning out, and looks around me. And before I can decipher what that means, he shoots down the hallway toward the bedrooms, running on his yellow stick-legs.
“Jake, you Olympic sprinting, cat burglaring rooster, get back here! This house isn’t big enough for the two of us! Gran may have indulged you, but I will not!”
Then, as I turn to follow the wayward bird, I hear footsteps thumping into the house. I jump, a squeal escaping me as I turn to see a man. A big scary man.Okay, he’s only scary because he’s big, in the cottage, and shirtless with tattoos.
He sort of looks like — I look to the floor where the romance novel lies, cover facing up — Tank Long, the bare-chested dominant biker from Harley and Hearts—the beard, hair, tattoos, and the size all similar. My eyes cut to the stranger.
My mind races, bouncing between how similar the intruder is to the sexy cover model I’ve been lusting after all day, the fact that there’s a rooster doing god knows what in the bedroom down the hall, and that I’m in the middle of nowhere with a bare-chested stranger — no matter how sexy . And then oddly, despite my racing thoughts, time seems to slow.
This is Gary’s fault! Because my condo, my beautiful, safe, condo, had a doorman, and neighbors and a thick fire door with a deadbolt and a swing bar door lock and, and — I look down at the knitting needle gripped in my fist — and a baseball bat in the hall closet. And those are all things that the large and intimidating man currently in my house wouldn’t have gotten past.
My still-whirling mind jumps on to remind me again just how secluded I am, in the country, where I live alone —I glance down the hall at Jake who’s left the bedroom, looking completely unconcerned as his head bobs with each long stride—except for a rooster. Gah! A goddamned rooster!
“Hey.” The man speaks, pulling my gaze back to him.
My eyes widen as I assess his tattoos, thick chest—complete with nipple ring, six-pack abs and the happy trail leading right into the band of his grey jogging pants. My fists, however tiny and untrained, fly up at the ready, knitting needle still clasped in one.
Bend your knees, legs shoulder width… I coach myself, then last minute, grab Gran’s antique rolling pin from the display shelf on the wall. One knitting needle, one rolling pin, one scared witless me, and an effing rooster is all I’ve got.
“Sorry, uh… I was jogging by.” The man stops talking as he sees me grab my weapon, raising his hands as if I’m wielding a gun. “I’m your neighbor.”
The biker man… hm, the huge, sexy, rugged beast of a man? Ack. No, no, no. The… My shoulders slump. Dagnabbit. I can’t even think of a better description for the man standing in Gran’s entrance than sexy biker and that’s likely because of his similarities to Tank Long. Thanks, asshole muse. I can no longer think for myself.
“This is not a damn novel!” I growl at myself. “And he is not Tank Long.”
The man clears his throat. “Excuse me?” His brows scrunch in confusion before he looks from my face to my hand and the rolling pin, to the chair tipped over on the floor and then back to my face. “Did you hit your head?”
My arm lowers slightly. This huge man is looking at me like I’m the scary one. That’s when time and thought seem to click back into regular speed and I remember I’m on an island in Eastern Canada with very friendly people and a well-below-average crime rate. And he did say he was…
My neighbor.
Oh.
“I didn’t hit my head!” I bark sharply, offended.
“Did Tank Long hit you in the head?” He asks this warily, with his head cocked slightly to one side.
“For heaven’s sake. No! My head is fine!”
“Okaaaay.” He clears his throat again. “Who’s Tank Long and did he hurt you anywhere else? Is he here? Do you need me to get him out of here?” The sexy stranger looks around, his expression firm, his body tight, as if he’s ready to rip anyone who harmed me into shreds with his bare hands. And dammit if that’s not kind of hot.
“No, no, it’s fine. Tank’s not here. Although, I probably wouldn’t mind if he was. He’s every woman’s fantasy.” I motion with the end of my knitting needle to the floor where Tank Long, all bare-chested and swoony, adorns the cover of the erotic romance novel.
Sexy Neighbor looks to the book and blinks.
“I heard a scream. The door was open and when I got up onto the porch I saw the chair flipped over,” the man says while pointing at the piece of furniture in question. He’s eyeing my rolling pin again but now there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. His smile takes away some of the scary and adds to the sexy.
“I was reading and something startled me.” I deadpan him. “I did not scream like some damsel, I only… yelped.” Narrowing my eyes, I continue, “Of course then you busted through my door scaring the hell out of me.”
“Uh.” He holds his finger up. “The door was open, so I didn’t bust through anything and I’m not a badguy…” He hesitates, a weird look flashing across his face. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He’s not a badguy? He says it as in villain , not like bad guy , as in, bad man. I blink. Now why would he say that? I examine his face closer. Whatever look had flashed across his face is long gone, but I’m stuck on it. Did he mean he is a bad guy but he’s not a villain? Intrigued and no longer feeling as scared, I lower the rolling pin but don’t put it back on the shelf.
“I didn’t think I had neighbors. At least not close enough to hear me scre…” My eyes fly to his. “Yelp.”
“I was jogging by.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the door and thus to the road.
My gaze sweeps over his sweat-glistened skin and I shiver. “You said that, but now you’re in my house.” I point at him with the knitting needle. “But it’s okay cause you’re not a badguy , right?”
His face, I assess, seems an honest one. Handsome, lived-in, but not too weathered. I’d guess he’s in his late thirties. His eyes though, they sort of twinkle with humor right now which is annoying. I lean forward for a better look. Are they blue? Cornflower? Grey? Like the sea after a storm? And those lashes, thick and pretty, darker than the red hair that’s just a shadow on his shaved head . The prettiness of them, a stark contrast to the tattoos and hardened edge his eyes hold beneath the humor.
“So you’re saying I can abort the rescue mission?” His lips curve a little higher.
The ink from his shoulder and chest runs up the side of his neck into a coppery beard which is a little mussed at current. Upon further inspection I note he has the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen in real life. And his arms are spectacular, large, well-shaped, and decorated, no…. I smile because I suddenly feel that click of satisfaction as the word adorned pops into my head. His arms are adorned with sleeve tattoos. Normally I find tattoos hideous, but on this man... I blow out in appreciation. Not one nasty snake or naked woman with a demon face mars his skin.
“You could be a cover model,” I blurt, totally caught up in my own thoughts.
“Excuse me?”
“Uh, nothing. Never mind.”
He gives a quick flash of a smile. “Can I lower my hands, killer? I promise I’ll stay right here.” That smile makes itself a little more obvious. “I won’t give you any cause to spear me with your knitting needle or bludgeon me with your…” His brows knit. “Is that an antique rolling pin?” He shoves both hands into his pockets and grins at me.
I look at the rolling pin in my hand, before narrowing my eyes back on him. I nod. He has a nice deep, slightly graveled, voice too.One that if I concentrate a little too much on, I feel low in my belly .
“Did you really just say I could be a model?”
My jaw clenches. “I wasn’t talking to you,” I grumble, and he looks around. I glance at the rooster hidden from his view down the hall, who’s taken to pecking at the trim, and add, “It’s okay, Jake, it’s just our neighbor. You don’t have to load the shotgun.” Jake’s timing, ever perfect, has him looking up at me with a cocked head and then the damn bird crows or cock-a-doodles or whatever you call the horrid sound coming from the traitorous mother-clucker.
When I look back at the man, he’s full-on grinning. “Yeah, Jake, no shotgun necessary.” His gaze holds mine as he says it, crinkles deepening at the corners showing his amusement, but he says nothing more.
“Alarm clock,” I mumble, glaring at Jake. “Reminding me to take the chicken out of the freezer for dinner tomorrow. Nothing like a good roast chicken.”
“Well, anyway, I was concerned. The place has been empty a while. So… you’re okay?”
I look past him at the open door. I hadn’t heard a vehicle, so his neighbor story seems legit.
“Yes, of course I’m okay. Why are you asking?” I huff, annoyed by his question but still distracted by his looks. “What is it you want?” My words hinting at impatience, I look at my watch, an antique from Gran’s jewelry box, which is broken, but he needn’t know it. “It’s teatime.”
I say teatime because clearly this tatted, muscular, cover-model biker-man wouldn’t know what time that was and it’s the first thing that comes to my sex-addled mind.
The man’s quick grin might make him look sort of boyish if he weren’t so big, tatted, and thickly bearded. The cottage being small, less than nine hundred square feet, makes it easy enough for me to see his big hands too, which are covered in nicks, calluses, paint and more artwork. Yes, his tattoos are definitely artwork.A working man, I hypothesize, who works out a lot . And currently needs to be hosed down as he’s glistening with sweat.
Gahhh.
Hosed down?
He points. “I’m renting the trailer down the road while I build a house. Are you Tessa by chance?”
“Tess, but yes,” I reply. I vaguely recall Gran mentioning this and that he’d paid up front for the year. This guy looks very handy. My middle hums, and it angers me. Men are scum. Even working men with big sexy arms, sleeve tattoos, voices that tickle intimate places, and deliciously narrow hips. That last thought sends my eyes downward, and then, embarrassed, right back up as his grey jogging pants give me more information than I need.
It doesn’t matter that this man is nothing like Gary… Not at all. Because all men are the same. No matter if they are mountainous and craggy and biker-ish… and, um, well-hung.
He clears his throat awkwardly.
My eyes land on his mouth which quirks up on one side.
“Isn’t teatime in late afternoon?” His brows are high, curved like dark orangey caterpillars, and he’s clearly judging me. “And in the UK?” One of those caterpillars drops so the other looks arched. “Are you British? Cause you don’t sound it.”
I gather a breath and look skyward as if only the man upstairs himself can save me from this conversation.
“No, seriously, it’s after ten o’clock at night,” he adds. “It’s even too late for high tea.”
“Pardon?” I frown, looking outside again as if I don’t believe him—cause I don’t—and rub my forehead. When had the day passed? The sun is gone. “I…” I’m speechless a moment until I look at his face again, feeling a pull of attraction. “If it’s after ten o’clock, what the hell are you doing at my door? It’s rude to come calling at this hour! And how the hell would you know what time tea is and what high tea is?”
He does something very irritating then. He tips his head back and laughs. It’s deep and throaty and that connection his voice has to my intimate parts has got nothing on his laugh. My jaw slackens at his audacity but then as I look at his throat, his deep alluring laugh making my belly twist with need, I shut my mouth with a click of my teeth.
“Do forgive me, your highness. I’ll be sure to check it’s the appropriate hour before stopping by to rescue a pretty lady from a potential home invasion.”
A pretty lady? Hm. For a moment I’m distracted by this comment and then I realize it’s just flattery. I’ve been cleaning for the last few hours. And these days, even on my best day, I don’t think anyone would call me pretty.
Haggard seems more apt. Used up, worn down, pinched, wearied— pick an adjective .
I snort in reply, but somewhere deep inside me, my inner teen girl giggles. “You did not rescue me. In fact, you can note for the future that I’ll never need you to rescue me, m’kay?” I pause a moment, wondering why he’s jogging so late. “And why on earth are you out jogging at this hour anyway?”
His wide warm smile almost coaxes one out of me.“This is the weirdest conversation I have ever had. I’m a bit of an insomniac so I jog to wear myself out.”
I make a noise in my throat at his confession, attempting to squelch the thought of the best way he could be tired out. Dirty, dirty, sex. I curse Paige in my mind because her book is clearly turning me into a horny horndog. And now I can hear her voice too. You could use a fun, no- strings fling, Tessie. And big, burly, biker-ish men are notorious for no-strings fun. I tune out the imaginary voice of my best friend and concentrate on the real man in Gran’s cottage.
“Well then, I thank you for your gallantry, however misplaced, now please, run along. It’s late…”
He interrupts, looking past me. “And you need your tea. And Jake is somewhere in here, debating on loading the shotgun.”
Now I do smile, but sardonically. “Yes, indeed.” I press the smile from my mouth. “Apparently I missed tea and um, Jake must be starving.”
“Right then.” He takes a candy in a gold wrapper out of his pocket, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. Then he pulls out another, offering it to me.
I roll my eyes and sigh impatiently, so he bows slightly, and walks away with a mocking finger wave, but then stops at the occasional table by the front door.
“If you ever need a real rescue, Sunshine, I’m just down the road.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. Us women are very capable of taking care of our own rescues these days. No men required.”
He only gives me a crooked half smile that makes me a little weak in the knees. I’m tempted to ask his name, but I stop myself. Even on an island, with him living nearby I’ll likely never see him again. Mostly because I don’t plan to venture out unnecessarily. And making friends is pointless since I plan on getting out of here as soon as my divorce is settled.
I stand there unmoving, maybe because his chest, abs, thighs, and, ahem the bulge in those grey jogging pants, are spectacular and they’ve put me in some sort of trance.
“Toodles, Sunshine,” he says, turning to walk out, unintentionally giving me a view of his tight muscular ass.
I don’t move, even after he’s out the door, down the porch steps and jogging out of my driveway. I’m paralyzed staring, battling with needs and urges I haven’t felt since—well, a very long time, and don’t gain control of my body again until Jake cock-a-doodles the proverbial crap out of me.
“Goddammit, bird!”
He ruffles his feathers, indignantly, and looks at me with his beady little eye.
“What?” I ask, wondering how a rooster can manage to look so judgmental.
“Know this, Jake, I really do love a good roast chicken. You’re on thin ice, pal.”