Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Tess
The next morning, I wake to the sound of crowing and it’s so loud it sounds as if it’s coming from the end of my bed. Which, as I sit up, I discover it is.
“Jesus!” Scrambling up to the headboard, I shout accusingly, “I locked you up!” It had taken a quick google search, but I was able to lure Jake out of the house to the chicken coop with some apple slices and lock him up with the hens last night. How he got back inside the house is beyond me.
Jake’s response is a cooing sound that I far prefer over his loud call of worship to the sun, but still makes me rather uneasy. And speaking of the sun… where the hell is it? It’s way too dark for it to be morning.
After confirming my suspicions by peeking through the lemon-yellow curtains beside the headboard, I point at the bird. “You blasted evil bird; the sun is barely up!” I snatch my hand back as Jake hops off the footboard and begins pecking at the colorful flowers embroidered on the white bedspread near my feet.I squeal loudly when his beak comes too close to my scrunched-up toes. He flaps his wings, landing on the floor where he gives me one of his signature indignant looks.
“Shoo!” I use the Afghan from the end of the bed to get the bird moving and far enough away that I can slide my feet into the safety of my slippers. Then I chase the blasted mother-clucker out of the room. He zig-zags down the hall like an expert quarterback, his head bobbing like some imaginary victory music is playing and it’s clearly his jam.
“Oh, Gran.” I groan as Jake scoots out through another “chicken” door in the room I used to occupy. It was partially obscured by a quilt ladder, so I hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Oh, and this door flap? It also has the damn chicken’s name hand painted above it. Jake, the friggin’ rooster, has not only one, but two of his very own bloody doors—that I know of.If I hadn’t spent so much time with Gran at the hospice before she died, I’d definitely think she’d been senile.
“Who keeps a pet chicken?” I gripe, trying to find something to block the entrance. Before I can, another bird pokes her head through. Rolling my eyes, I leave the room, shutting the door behind me. It’s too early to herd chickens without caffeine.
Ignoring the clucking from the back room, I fill the kettle with water and drop a tea bag into my mug. And I do mean mine. It says Tess Harlow, New York Times Bestselling Author across the side. Gran must have stolen it from my swag stash the last time she’d come to Toronto to visit.
I’m smiling at the thought of her drinking proudly from it when I hear footsteps coming up the back porch. I rise to see it’s a tall teenager carrying a bucket and a jug. For a moment—a quick one, I’m disappointed it isn’t my new neighbor.
Tess Harlow, we are not here to make friends, or even neighborly acquaintances. We are here to write our overdue book and wait for the divorce to be finalized.
“Good morning,” I say opening the door. “You must be Jay.”
The teenager nods. “Morning, Ms. Harlow, I was just about to drop this at your door.” He holds up the bucket filled with eggs, and a jug of milk. “You’re up early,” he says, handing me the goods.
“Too early,” I say on a groan, nodding to the group of hens pecking at the sparsely grassed area outside of Jake’s flap door. “Is this normal?”
“Ah, ‘fraid so.” He chuckles.“Your grandmother loved Jake. He’s the one?—”
I cut him off, holding my hand up. “Oh, I know which one he is. He was nice enough to serenade me from the footboard of the bed this morning.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “Never seen a bird so in love with a human before.” He looks over his shoulder. “Except for Herald. You gotta watch for him too.”
“Harold?” I swallow hard as I set the bucket and jug on an antique wood milking stool just inside the screen door. “Who’s Harold?”
“The big gander.”
“Gander?” I tighten my robe as I step out on the deck, letting the screen door slap slowly shut. “That’s a goose, right?”
Jay nods at me. God, there’s a pet goose too.
“He’s not innocent like Jake here.” Jay crouches down to pat the rooster who’s come over to investigate us.Jake scoots away when Jay’s hand comes near, once again in his professional NFL-worthy zigzag. “Herald is protective as all hell and only lets certain people near the barn. Took me six months of bringing him cooked spaghetti before he stopped chasing me and biting my ass.” Another laugh from Jay makes me laugh too, except mine’s the nervous kind. And I can laugh despite the threat of the killer goose because I never ever plan on going near the barn.
“Avoid Herald. Gotcha.”
“Well, gotta go,” he says, looking at his smartwatch. “Got an econ quiz this morning. I’ll be back after school.”
“Right, good luck. And please thank your mother for the welcome basket. It was a lifesaver.”
Jay gives me a smile and a wave before heading off and I take the still-warm milk into the kitchen. It’s warmth suddenly making me question putting milk in my tea. Another crow from Jake outside makes me forget the weirdness of it though, and I head into the back room to shove a shelf in front of the chicken flap.
“No chickens allowed,” I holler and dust my hands together.
After finally plunking down in my chair with a groan worthy of an octogenarian, I take three moan-worthy sips of my morning brew and open my email. The first thing I see is an email from Paige—well actually it’s two, one from her personal account which I read through and reply to with ease, and one from her business account, which I decide to avoid until later. I am well past my deadline on a three-book deal and even though she’s not pushing me, the publisher is pushing her and I feel like a failure whenever we talk business, which, as the email subject line states, has been too long.
But every attempt I’ve made at writing the last book has failed. And I’m past considering I’ve lost my touch. I know it now. Maybe that’s Gary’s fault, too. Maybe he was my muse. I consider this for only a minute and despite my sour mood, laugh. The only thing Gary could inspire is a pack of lawyers to salivate. I was writing, and selling well,long before him.
Now, if I were considering a man with muse-like qualities, I’d definitely consider the man from last night. He was… pure heat, the kind that burns, but you like it. I’d bet my New York Times Bestselling Author tag he’s inspired a plethora of hearts to beat between thighs, nipples to tighten diamond-hard, and lips to part in gasps of wanton, needy pleasure.
I lick my lips, grabbing my laptop and open my word processor. I’m well into a scene I wouldn’t dare publish, when the rumbling and beeping sound of heavy equipment yanks me out of it. Those are things I’d expect to hear from downtown Toronto, not here and certainly not at—I look at the clock on my laptop—eight in the morning. I try my best to ignore it so I can write even a few more sentences, especially since they’re hard to come by these days, but the thud-thud-thud of hammering, shrill buzzing of some sort of saw, and various other noise polluting tools join the cacophony of construction sounds.
“What the bloody hell?” Slamming my laptop shut, I rise, looking out the back window for the source. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary though. The chickens are still pecking away at the too-long grass, unfazed, and the cow, ponies and horses are grazing in the field nonplussed, so…
My phone rings just as I spot a glint of movement at the back of the property between a patch of a few dozen trees. The original house, the one Gran’s grandparents had built, sits back behind the tree line near the more popular road into town.
Glancing at the call display on my cell, thoughts of the old stone foundation and noise coming from that direction vanish and are replaced by angry bitterness.
“You’re not supposed to call me, Gary,” I say in way of a greeting, already starting to pace the kitchen. “That is why I’m paying a large portion of my future retirement savings on lawyers, remember?” I grit my teeth. “And you should bloody remember since my money is paying for yours too.”
“Now, Tess, it’s our money, remember?”
I bite back a curse at his sing-song bullshit reply.
“Our money that you never earned a dime of?” I hum. “Such a man that lets his woman pay for everything.” I say the last thing in a breezy way, and he swallows hard enough that I hear it through the line. I know exactly where to hit him. In the manhood. To which there is very little of in my humble opinion.At least compared to my jogging-pant-wearing neighbor.
“Speaking of that…”
“What? Your lack of manhood?” I quip. “Oh, sorry that was in my head.”
A huff of frustration through the speaker makes me smile. I know I shouldn’t bait him. It’s really not good for my bank account.
“No, Tess, I’m talking about our money.”He puts extra emphasis on ‘our.’
I gather a breath. “What about the money, Gary?” I roll my eyes, feeling tension gather behind them.
“I’ve decided not to marry Marie.”
At first there’s a flicker of satisfaction that maybe he was dumped but then I remember I want him to get married. Him getting married is the best possible thing for me. Alimony ends when he remarries.
“Why not?” I blurt, my words filled with way more emotion than I want him privy to.
“We’ve decided marriage can wait.”
I grit my teeth. I can practically see his smile.
“Perhaps indefinitely,” he says breezily. “It’s just a piece of paper after all.”
My jaw clamps tighter. But I remind myself living together in a conjugal relationship in Canada is just as legally binding as marriage—at least it is after three years if they stay in Ontario. Or sooner if they have a child. My gut burns at the last thought.
“Is this because the mediator sided with me on my Gran’s estate not being a part of our assets, since you had already moved on by then?”
The only reason I won this little challenge was because Gran didn’t have much else besides the property and my lawyers made it clear since the property held great sentimental value, far greater than monetary, and Gary had already been having a long-term sexual relationship before Gran died, it should stay with me.
To which Gary made the mistake of blurting that if it meant so much surely I should be willing to give up more money to keep it.
The judge, having just lost his own grandmother at the ripe old age of a hundred and four, sided with me. For once.
“I’m not answering that, Tess. Is that where you are? I went by the condo to talk but the doorman said you’d moved out. Did you run back home?”
This phone call was simply to poke me. To get me to say something he’d somehow use against me. So I gather a breath and release it slowly.“That is none of your business now, Gary. From now on if you need to communicate with me, do it through our lawyers.” I don’t wait for a reply, I simply end the call. And because I’m so freakin’ zen, I don’t slam my phone on the table, but gently place it next to my laptop.
I may have learned that lesson the hard way.And I can no longer afford to purchase a new phone for the sake of my temper.
And okay, I’m totally not zen. I may appear it on the outside, but inside? I’m kicking things and screaming—loudly—and in curse words. I plop down in my chair and open my laptop but when I pull up the document I was working on, which isn’t the one I need to be working on, I only get angrier. At the noise, at Gary, and at myself.
Rage boils in me, especially at how helpless I am. Gary and the judge stole my independence, no, my autonomy. And…
A loud grinding sound has me flying to my feet. Glaring out the window, I grit my teeth. I can do something though. I’m not helpless with everything. I can damn well stop that noise.
With all my anger focused on one thing —the noise— I pull the set of binoculars Gran kept for wildlife watching off the window ledge. Training the lenses at the trees, I see a huge pile of dirt… My eyes narrow…on Gran’s property—my property.
There’s a backhoe, and a dump truck with Wolfe written on the side and what clearly looks like the makings of a construction site. Setting down the binoculars, I spin on my heel, heading to the pile of mail I’d ignored yesterday and since already forgotten about.I’d seen that name, Wolfe, on some mail, hadn’t I?
I flip through several envelopes before finding the ones I want.As I scan the first few letters I realize Gran had a portion of the property severed. A few acres right where the former house and barn stood way back in the early nineteen hundreds. And she’d sold it to someone named C. Callen. Who was building a house. The letters warn about the upcoming construction and welcoming Gran to call with any concerns. Another letter thanks her for allowing them access through her land for ease of the build.And the last one contains a cheque. A large one. Which I toss aside because I’m suddenly wondering if Gran was even of sound mind when she severed the property. Maybe I didn’t notice when I was at her bedside that she was slipping. I mean she kept a pet chicken for heaven’s sake. Had they taken advantage of my poor sweet gran?
Beyond angry, I grab my cell and dial the number for the company, but I only get an answering machine message telling me to call back between 9 am and 5 pm. Looking at the screen of my iPhone, I see it’s only eight thirty. I head into the spare room and start riffling through papers left in a tidy stack on her desk. It’s there in the innocent-looking pile that I find a rental agreement for the trailer gran kept hooked up to the property about two kilometers up the road. I knew my parents had lived there a while when they first got married, but now it was rented to the same C. Callen.
Dropping the paper, my jaw shifts to the side as I remember my neighbor from last night. He’d said he was renting a trailer down the road while he built his house. Oh, hell no.
Grabbing Gran’s shawl from the back of her chair, I slip on a pair of her house shoes and head through the back door to walk across the field.
“How dare you, C. Callen,” I grumble as I storm through the overgrown grass. Well, storm would be how I’d walk if I wasn’t waylaid by the long arduous weedy grass and Gran’s slippers, which are a size too large for me.
I’m almost there when I’m suddenly thrown off balance, and pitched forward. I yip as my ankle twists, and I stumble. Cursing loud enough for the cow to stop grazing and look at me from the field to my left, I examine my ankle and the hole in the ground that caused it to burn and throb.
As I stand—well, attempt to stand, tentatively putting a foot down—my ankle burns hotter, and pain shoots up my leg. I whimper a moment, but it’s mostly because I’m throwing a pity party for myself in my head.
“You okay?”
Startled by the voice, I yelp. And once again, just like the night before, I’m in fighting stance, sore ankle screaming, staring at the ‘not a badguy biker.’ And curses, he looks just as ruggedly handsome as I remember. Today in a clean white tee that shows off every rippling muscle, jeans complete with tool belt—yum, and big tan leather work boots.
“Is that all you can say?” I snark to hide my embarrassment and pain.
“I believe I said a lot more than that yesterday.” He smiles easily, his relaxed expression annoying me further.
I start to step forward but when a jolt of pain shoots up through my ankle, I stop and put my hands on my hips, hiding my pain. Remembering why I’m in the field with a throbbing ankle, I shout, “You!” Scowling at him, I point at his chest, a hot flush running through me at its perfection. “This is all your fault.”
“I saw you coming…” He stops as my words hit. I watch his brow wrinkle a moment before it rises. “My fault? How is you struggling through the grass and falling on your ass my fault?” He points to the right of the cottage. “There’s a better path over there. Your grandmother let me clear it so I could get back and forth without…” He looks down at my ankle. “Getting tangled up in the weeds and rabbit holes.”
“Rabbits aren’t native to the island, only snowshoe hares and they don’t burrow.” I cross my arms. I don’t know much about animals, but I know this.
“Either way this is a work site so you shouldn’t be here…” He knocks on the work helmet on his head. “Without protective headwear. It’s dangerous.”
My brows rise. “ I shouldn’t be here?” I purse my lips. “Is that too tight?” I jab a finger toward the hard hat. “Perhaps it’s cutting off circulation.” Even I’m a bit shocked at my words, but once I start, I can’t stop.
“Uh, okay,” is all he says to my rudeness.
My instinct is to blurt he’s on my property so he’s the one that shouldn’t be here, but I know that’s not the case since my Gran severed and sold the lot. But he’s ruined my writing session, which he also kind of inspired, but he doesn’t need to know that. And Gran should never have sold this land in the first place. If she needed money, she should have come to me. My heart hurts a moment as I think it. Had she needed money? Had she been in financial trouble?
I shove the thought, and the guilt that came with it, away, vowing to investigate it later, after I’ve dealt with this menace.
“I’m here to talk to about this…” I wave my hand at the construction site, and then glance up. Now that I’m closer and not completely focused on the machinery, I see a foundation.
“House?” he questions with a quick glance over his shoulder.
I nod curtly, staring at a gingerbread-style playhouse which is completely built near the treeline. It’s sided in ocean-blue boards, with tidy white trim. It has a complete wraparound porch and as I glance to the house’s foundation I wonder if it might be a tiny replica. I limp to it, sticking my head inside, suddenly filled with wonder.
“What would you like to know about the house?”
I pull my head out and tear my eyes away from the house to look at him. No, I glare at him. Glower, even.
“You have questions?” he leads, but I’m suddenly at a loss for words.
Someone calls to him. He turns to raise a finger. When I look to the caller I see a motorcycle—one of those big ones with the wide handlebars and low seat.I know it’s a Harley because of the cover of Harley and Hearts. But there’s another one there too. Not a Harley but something that looks like an antique.
“Are you building a house for a gang of bikers?” I blurt, my eyes wide. I’m being a judgmental jerk, but I don’t care. His brows shoot up and I think I’ve offended him.
“Gang is the wrong word. It’s club. Motorcycle club. Gang sort of implies criminal behavior which only one percent of MCs are involved in.Most do charitable acts, ride the open road, travel. Just in general enjoy life.”
My fists find my hip, feeling full-on bitchy now because I know it’s club and not gang - I just read about it. “I don’t need a lesson on bikers,” I snap. “I couldn’t care less about the inner workings of biker clubs.” I huff my impatience. “So, is that what you’re building, a biker clubhouse? ”
“No.” He chortles, looking over his shoulder at the house. His face, at least the side I can see, is lit with pride. “It’s a family home. No biker gangs or clubs allowed.” He turns back, winking and it damn well flusters me because my god, this man is handsome. “Do you need breakfast or something?”
“Breakfast? What?” I blurt, confused. My eyes flick to the little house again. I would have loved a house like that as a child. I smile thinking of my own child playing in it with books and dolls… but then I remember that’s not likely to happen for me since I’m… I’m… unloveable and likely incapable of not screwing up a child. The loud machine starts up and a cloud of dusty dirt catches on the breeze and blows straight at us, covering me and my scowling mouth with gritty red dust.
“You seem a little hangry. I thought maybe we could take this convo to the diner, my treat. You can ask me anything you’d like about the build.”
Choking indignantly, I try to brush the dirt off me and my clothing. “Hangry?” I reply with not-so-subtle outrage. “I have every right to be annoyed without you blaming it on hunger.” I throw my hands up. “I was trying to work.” I let out a long-suffering sigh. “But who can work with all this racket? And it’s barely dawn.” I narrow my eyes at him when he presses his lips to prevent a smile. “And you know what I’d really like to know…” I pause, letting my words wash over him. “I’d like to know how you convinced my senile grandmother to sever her property.”
That stops his smile. He stands straighter.
“I didn’t convince her of anything. And she definitely wasn’t senile. And…” He looks down at his watch and blinks. “It’s a lot past dawn.”
“Normal people are just waking up now.” I grind the words through my teeth. “And what about my concentration, Mr. Not Biker? Do you have a solution for that?” I’m being a total diva and I know it. I might even be embarrassed if Gary and my lack of progress on the book I actually need to write hadn’t soured my mood so much. And maybe if I hadn’t been woken at it’s-still-night o’clock by a damn evil rooster.
“I guess I’m not normal since I’ve been up since five this morning.” He pauses, his eyes latching onto mine. “Right about the time your rooster crowed.”
My mouth opens and then snaps closed as I shut my eyes.
“He’s not my rooster,” I say and then clench my jaw.
“Jake is yours now. Unless your grandmother left him to someone else.”
“The will isn’t through probate yet,” I retort. I honestly haven’t even looked at the will, but my grandmother’s lawyer did tell me everything was mine. He said a bunch of other things too, but I really hadn’t been processing much. And I certainly wasn’t staking my claim on the noisy creature.
“Hmm, well okay, I won’t make a big deal about it now then. And I’ll even apologize for not introducing myself yesterday. But as you know, I’d interrupted your teatime, so I wanted to get out of your hair.” He’s smirking and it shoots a bolt of heat through me. I narrow my eyes at his teasing. His easygoing temperament, so different from my own, is surprisingly pleasant. And not something I’d expect by looking at him. His exterior is so rough, no, he’s rugged, not rough. He’s clean, well kept, but the tattoos, the muscles, the beard, and something in his eyes, all of it hardens him.
“Lily mentioned you. Often.” His smile widens as if he’s recalling a memory. “She also warned me you’re a spitfire.”
I swallow, looking at the ground momentarily silenced by grief. “You knew my Gran in more than just a transactional way?” The words come out sort of crusty-like from my throat.
“Yeah. She had me over regularly for…” He pauses, smiling. “Well, not tea.” He gives a deep throaty chuckle that hums through me. “Your Grandmother was a wonderful lady. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“None of this matters,” I say sharply, again feeling the stab of grief at the mental image of Gran sharing her whiskey with …with… this man . I wave my hands in the air as if the simple act can shoo away my grief, this man who is nothing but an inconvenience, and the whole mess my life is in. “I have to get back to work.”
“Right. Your grandmother mentioned you’re an author. What do you write?”
“Did you think I stormed over here for a friendly chat, Case Callen?” I snap, rolling my eyes.
“I hoped…”
I cut him off, but his words hit me in the gut. He hoped? “Can you just keep it down over here?” It doesn’t come out so much like a question as it does a demand.
“Tessa, I’m not sure how easy that’ll be.” He looks back over his shoulder at the building site. “I’m on a deadline…”
“It’s Tess . And so am I!” I bark, extremely flustered. “It’s why I came here to the country… for peace and quiet.” Deep down I know I’m being bitchy and reactive, and he’s undeserving of my wrath, but instead of checking myself, I turn on my heel, wincing at the sharp pain and walk away.
“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer, Case Callen. I don’t know how you convinced my senile old grandmother to sell this piece of property, but you’ll be taking your noisy entourage somewhere else soon enough.” I look over my shoulder for a second, flicking my hair as I do, trying my darnedest not to limp as I head for the safety of the cottage. The place where sexy, rugged, but sweet-tempered men don’t try to trick me into liking them.
“If Lily was senile, so am I,” he says on a holler to my back.
“That explains a lot,” I quip, not breaking stride. I’m not sure, as I’ve put a bit of distance between us, but I think I hear him whistle at my words.
And as if confirming it, he hollers, “She was right about your attitude.”
I don’t spin back and pin him with the look he deserves, mostly because Gran did tell me that. All the time. When I was younger, and she used her damn wooden spoon when she did. But in these last years the only time my attitude came out with her was when we discussed Gary. Turned out Gran was right about a lot of things.
“You need a good strong man, Tess Harlow. One that will put you first, in your place, and take care of your heart. Not that spineless, and probably dickless, twat.”
“Gran!”
“Don’t you Gran me, young lady! You still need a spoon across your backside after all these years.”
And it’s those words and Paige’s book that spark a fantasy involving my sexy new neighbor spanking the attitude right out of me before he takes me roughly, bent across the kitchen table. I’m still thinking about as I sit down at my computer to write. And write I do—just not what I should be writing.