Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Tessa
The sound of a text notification wakes me, and I groggily reach for my phone, eyes still shut. Peeling one open, the first thing I notice is the time. Six-forty am — What? I bolt upright, forgetting the text even as another one comes through, looking for Jake. He’s nowhere to be found. I smile, flopping back on the bed, throwing my arms up in a languid, cat-like stretch. It takes a long time to fall asleep lately. Finding out, Ca— the biker, is a cad, keeps me awake well into the night so the extra hour and forty minutes feels good. Damn good. I must have slept through the cock-clock. I have a momentary blip of concern over Jake but shove it aside as my phone bleeps again.
“Leave me alone!” I groan, pulling the pillow over my head. It’s probably Paige gushing about my book and reneging on her promise not to push me to publish.
By the time I’m up and moving, I’m in the mood for something stronger than tea, but it’s far too early for Gran’s whiskey, so I start the coffee machine. As the smell of the brew permeates the air in the kitchen, I notice Jake still hasn’t made an appearance. And when I look outside, I notice the coop is still closed.
Jake’s been good for my writing routine. Starting around five in the morning lets me get most of my work done before the cacophony of construction noise begins, which is earlier now. The man Case left in charge of the site when he left wasn’t afraid of me and my shenanigans, I guess. And since he’s been back, they’ve kept the same start time.
Now I get up and moving earlier and ignore it all, pretending both the noise and the biker don’t exist, which isn’t easy since I’m so damn angry and hurt.
I slip my feet into flip-flops, deciding to meet Jay at the barn and bring the milk and eggs back myself. Then, I think I’ll make myself some pancakes. Celebratory pancakes for finishing my book. I’m still in my matching silk robe and pajamas, but I don’t care about being seen. Jay sees me in my robe all the time and has only screamed once. I chuckle at my own joke and grab a little container of scrap vegetables and apple chunks from the counter for Jake and the hens, and head outside. Setting the scrap bucket on the porch steps to give it to them when I get back, I make my way across the dewy grass.
The cool air hits me, and I tug my robe tighter. The unseasonably warm fall is nothing but a distant memory now. Was it only three weeks ago I spent the day on the beach with Paige? I shiver but breathe in the earthy smell of autumn. Unlatching the chicken coop door, I squint across the field looking for Jay. The other animals aren’t out either. Looking down at my watch, I frown. Jay is never this late.
Pulling out my phone, I see a voicemail. My gut twists as I key in my code and put the phone up to my ear. Panic rises as I listen. There’s a second message but I hang up right away and call Jay.
“What do you mean you’re not coming today?” I suck in a breath. “Jay.” I say his name as if I can reason with him.
“It’s going to be okay, Ms. Harlow. I overslept, and it’s exam week. Calculus this morning, so I can’t be late. But I’m going to tell you what to do. You’ve got this.” His voice is soothing as if he’s talking to a hysterical toddler. Which admittedly, is exactly how I feel.
“Okay? No, not okay! Definitely not okay, Jay!” The edge of panic in my voice escalates when Jay repeats that he’s not coming.
“Ms. Harlow, it’s going to be easy. Just the basics. I’ll do the rest after my exam.”
I’m freaking out, but I purposely steady my voice. “Do I have a choice?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve got a sixty-eight in this class and if I miss this exam I’ll have to repeat the semester.”
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Okay, we can’t have that. Tell me what to do.” Jay’s seventeen, if he can do it, so can I, right? Yeah, a seventeen-year-old built like a linebacker who’d grown up on a huge farm. I rub my palm over my face, hoping it can swipe away the negative thoughts. I’m starting fresh, right? I’m an accomplished author with numerous accolades. I’m always writing about things I’ve never done before, and convincingly. And I’ve gotten used to Jake and his hens now. How hard can it be?
I nod, feeling more capable than thirty seconds ago, as Jay lists off what I need to do. It seems simple enough, thank goodness, so I straighten my shoulders, drop my phone into my pocket and fully open the coop door. The smell of damp straw and chicken shit hit me like a brick wall. And the sunshine beaming in through the windows shows me the air is thick with dust.
I grimace, hold my breath and grab the egg basket. The hens dart around to avoid me, making anxious cooing sounds as I collect their eggs. Popping my head out of the coop now and then for a breath of fresher air, I manage to collect all the eggs before good ol’ Jake crows and I almost drop the basket.
Jake follows me the whole time, watching me with what appears to be suspicion. As if I’m solely responsible for his late release. His beaky face and beady dark eyes seem to say, “You’ve never been in here before. What are you up to? And how dare you arrive so late! Do you have any of those apple slices, raspberries or celery? Mm, spaghetti noodles perhaps? I’d forgive you for noodles.”
“Relax Jake. Just a minor setback. You can go back to waking me up at the buttcrack of dawn tomorrow.” I grab a scoop of layer’s feed — that’s what Jay calls it, and toss it around the ground.
Jake does a little head cock, making a chirpy sound as if agreeing with me and goes to peck the ground with the others.
With seven brown eggs, six light blue eggs—from the hens Jay calls Easter eggers, which I couldn’t distinguish from any other chicken if my life depended on it, but the eggs are pretty— and ten white ones, I have more eggs than I can eat, especially when there are four dozen in the fridge already.
Gran used to put a sign up and people would stop in to buy them, but I can’t imagine strangers arriving all day long and disrupting me.
Setting the basket of eggs by the fence post, I head for the barns, deciding that maybe I’m not so bad at this farmer stuff after all. The chickens took no time at all.
“Easy-peasy,” I say dusting my hands together.
Scratch that. Yes, I am bad at this stuff. So, so bad.
First, wearing flip-flops to a barn is stupid, like monumentally stupid. The ducks aren’t afraid of me like the chickens. And I have a bruise starting on my big toe to prove it. Who would have thought that toes look like fat little worms? And as if that wasn’t enough, the hose pops out of the watering trough, turning the already muddy ground into something resembling too-thick, pudding. And when I step through the mud after filling the trough, there’s an ungodly squelching noise as my flip-flops are sucked off with the force of a black hole and yanked into another dimension or maybe another universe because no matter how much I dig, finding them is impossible.
Okay, I didn’t dig at all — I mean flip-flops are a dollar a pair at the bargain store, whereas manicures to fix the damage of the great flip-flop expedition are a lot costlier. I basically stared in horror and yanked, with great force I might add, to get my feet out of the mud, heading straight for higher, and dryer, ground. Livestock be damned.
Only I walked right into goose territory, which brings me to my second mistake. I should’ve let them out last. Jay said put the food down, let them out and collect the eggs while they’re eating. And what did I do?
Not. That.
And now I’m trapped.
The chickens had cooed, clucked and zig-zagged, staying the hell out of my way when I was in their coop. They were easy, after all chickens are chicken. But this thing in front of me, blocking me against the barn, with a pond to my right and the life-sucking mud-filled paddock to my left, is no damn chicken. It’s a… maybe it isn’t even a goose. I mean Mother Goose was a children’s book icon, right? Geese weren’t supposed to be evil, were they?
It charges and I yelp. Throwing my hands up to protect my face and my leg up to protect my midsection, I peek to see it’s stopped and is eyeing me seemingly with nefarious intentions.
They call Canadian Geese ‘cobra chickens’ or ‘murder chickens’… I can’t remember now, but this is not one of those bold black, grey and white pests that hold up traffic, blocking cars, attacking bumpers, and scaring cyclists witless. It’s worse!
“Nice goose, nice goose,” I coo, lowering my arms and leg. “We can be friends. You’re just like Mother Goose, yeah? I’ll bring you spaghetti — lots of spaghetti, I promise, okay?”
I start to move, and the thing opens its orange beak wide, and hisses at me as if insulted at being thought of as Mother Goose… And, oh, my, god, are those teeth? On its tongue? Teeth! Jagged little tongue knives! I blink, hoping I need glasses or something, but nope, the thing still has tongue teeth. Another hiss has me pushing back hard enough on the barn wall that it groans. Death by goose is a far more worrisome than being crushed by a barn in this second though.
Tomorrows headlines will read: New York Times bestselling Author Dies at 35 from Goose Attack!
I still lean forward though because I don’t want to die either way. But the goose rises, chest out, wings spread wide, and its long neck bent forward while its open beak blasts hisses and honks at me.
“Nice goose. Nice.” I hold up both my hands. The goose lunges, and I scream. Loudly. Embarrassingly, loudly, as if I’ve been charged by a bull rather than a twenty-five-pound goose.
I stare, frozen in place while it does some sort of war dance, knowing if I move again I’ll be goose food.
“Can we talk about this?” I ask in a soothing voice.
The bird maintains its aggressive stance but closes its beak, which I take as a good sign. I try to think of the name of the goose I was warned about, like maybe if I call it by name it won’t attack, but now, in this life and death situation, my mind draws a damn blank.
After several beats, the goose’s wings fold back, and it looks harmless, falsely harmless.
“Look Mr. or Ms. Goose, I’m not here to do you harm or anything. I’m here to feed you. I’m going to lower my hands, okay?” And when I move, I get another hiss. And the beast rises again, wings wide. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I screamed earlier, now I whimper.
That’s when I feel my phone in my robe pocket.
“Yes!” I whisper-yell, which earns me another lunge, making me scream the loudest yet. I slowly pull the phone out. But as soon as I open the home screen, I can’t think of who to call.
If I call local authorities the headlines will read something far more embarrassing. Bestselling Author, Tess Harlow, Calls for Rescue from Mother Goose. I consider Paige’s parents but her dad’s still recovering from his hip replacement surgery, and Paige’s mom won’t leave his side.
I try Jay’s mother, but there’s no answer. I even call Bylaw Officer Donald because I’m desperate. He answers but rambles on about the birth of his two newest babies, Clara and Kline. He says a lot more, in detail, but I tune him out. I’m able to finally say congratulations but then he passes the phone to his wife. And I hear the details all over again. Case was right, Donald overshares, but he’s got nothing on his wife.
After I hang up with the happy couple, I open my texts, planning to scroll through for options. I freeze at Case’s last text. Hurt wells so big inside me I can’t breathe. I blocked his new number, but this is the text feed from his old number—when I was in love.
When I look up from the phone screen to wipe my eyes, other geese have joined their fearless leader, although they at least hang back, perhaps only there to bear witness to my murder.
“Back off, Harold.” The voice is firm and no-nonsense.
I look up and the hurt from seconds ago quadruples and takes my breath away.
There, slightly out of breath and rumpled, but still like an extra-tall, well-muscled, redheaded superhero, Case walks in his sexy gait toward me. All but Harold scatter.
“Harold! That’s your name,” I say with enthusiasm when I find my air. The goose eyes me and once again puffs up, wings on display, head low, breast out. I squeak.
“Git!” Case takes one big-booted, threatening step and I watch carefully, eyes wide as Harold folds his wings back, holstering them like the weapons they are, and moves away looking around the ground as if nothing is amiss with the day.I stare warily as he wanders off, toward the pond, his gaggle waddling after.
Clenching my jaw, I shove myself off the barn wall. “I was handling it.”
Case folds his arms. His big, big, tattooed arms. And then his eyes skim from my face down my body and I feel heat everywhere his gaze touches me. I grit my teeth tighter. He’s married, and a cheater, so it doesn’t matter how hot he is. He’s an asshole.
“Then what was all the screaming about, Sunshine? I thought you were being murdered.”
It was part of my strategy,” I state plainly. “And it was working just fine until you ran over and pissed Harold off all over again.”
He rolls his eyes. “Uh-uh.” He looks at my face and I note there’s a spark of humor in his eyes. For a split second my heart softens and then aches so badly I think I might need a cardiologist.
“Are you aware of the time?”
“What?” Confused, I look down at my phone still clutched in my hand. “Seven twenty-three. Why?” I note how tired he looks. Eyes puffy, face lined a bit more than usual. I harrumph. Having a newborn can do that. Unless… I don’t finish the horrible thought because no one, not even lying cheaters, deserve that.
He nods. “That’s correct. A bit early for goose-war cries, no?” His fingers strum against his delicious forearm. The ink, some colorful, some not, is beautiful. “Or do noise violations only apply to me?”
I huff out a breath, not knowing what to say to that.
“But now that I’m here, we can discuss why you’ve been ignoring me. I know I stood you up but I wasn’t lying about the emergency, Tessa.”
“You’re welcome to start work as early as you like now. I’ve finished my book.” I bite the inside of my cheeks as his brow rises, realizing how self-absorbed I sound. “And as far as discussing anything, that’s not happening. I’ve got things to do and apparently so do you.”
“Is that so?” He unfolds his arms, and his hands land on his narrow hips. His jeans, tight and telling, look drool-worthy across his muscled thighs. But his demeanor shifts. His brows lower, a wrinkle forming between his brows and the playful sparkle in his eyes disappears.
“Yes, now go finish building your house.” I make a shooing motion with my hand for good measure.
“Do you have any idea how spoiled you sound?” His words take on a sharp edge. His expression goes tight as if he can’t believe I’m so clueless.
I blink. I’m not used to him being so cold and sharp. Not since we’d started playing this game, anyway. And even before that, he was never like this. I was. Swallowing, I start to speak, but he stops me with a hand. A huge, ruggedly callused one.
“Never mind. People like you never see things any other way than their own. You simply take what you want and nothing less, and only when it suits you do you try to be reasonable.” He spins on his boot and starts to leave.
“People like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, my hackles rising. “How about people like you?”
“Did you stop to think just once about how your demands and sabotage affected not just my life, but the crew’s? You’ve been fucking up their schedules too.” He points toward his house with a jab of his thumb over his shoulder. “They’ve all got little ones at home. Ones they can’t tuck in because they get home so late.” He points again. “One of the guys volunteers at a soup kitchen. Hasn’t been able to get there for over a month. Another’s wife left him because she thought he was drinking again. I managed to convince her otherwise, so they’re back together again, but it was a shit week for him.”
My jaw drops. I’m speechless. He sighs forcefully, shifting his jaw and looking away.
“And I’ve been asking for your help, Tessa, but I guess if it doesn’t affect you, you don’t care.” He looks back at me, hurt in his eyes.
“Which is why you lied about compromising pictures,” I accuse. “Because I wasn’t jumping to help you.”
“Lying?” A shadow falls over his face, darkening it further. “It was a private investigator across the road and on the beach trying to get dirt on me that day a few weeks ago. And he’s got a hell of a lot more damning pictures than just the ones he took there.”
I throw my hands up. “Great! My biggest mistake is about to be public knowledge.”
“Your biggest mistake?” he huffs. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. I’ve arranged so they won’t get released to the press and damage your precious reputation. But I still need help because those pictures have already damaged mine.”
I clutch my stomach. His expression, so icy, makes my gut hurt. “I wouldn’t help you if you were the last man on earth.”
“I can’t do this now.” Again, he starts to leave.
Hot rage boils up. How dare he judge me when he’s far worse.
“Gotta get back to your wife and kids perhaps?”
He stops dead in his booted tracks. I watch his back, the rise and fall of his shoulders, as my words sink in, but I don’t give him a chance to speak.
“I mean, you’re right. I have been acting spoiled. Like the world owes me. And yeah, I’ve been manipulative. That’s how I learned to survive, I guess. And I won’t deny I enjoyed our game while it lasted.” I look away. “I can see things through others’ eyes, hell my job depends on it.” I lower my voice as I reflect on my behavior. “Except… I haven’t been doing that at all.” I focus my attention on my muddy feet.
“So yeah, I’ve been an asshole. And I’m sorry for that. But I didn’t play you nearly as hard as you played me. I never lied about another family. I never pretended to fall in love with you to get what I wanted.” I force myself to look up at him as he turns back to me. When our eyes meet my gut drops further.
“My feelings were real.” I pause as his expression tightens, a wince of sorts, but speak again before he can muster up his denial. “So no, I won’t help you, because being around you is torture. I just want to be left alone to lick my wounds. You owe me that.”
His mouth opens, eyes as sharp and hard as knives. “I’ve never lied to you.” He takes a step toward me. “And I am in love with you. And for fuck’s sake, married? Where the hell did that come from?”
I roll my eyes. “I saw the picture on your phone, the blonde, and the little girl who looks just like you, right down to her silky red curls. I also saw the text about your wife being in labor. So just stop.” I hold my hand out flat as if it will deflect his lies.
Before he can say anything more, a little girl comes skipping toward us.
“Daddy!” A peel of giggles burst from her cherub lips. “The chickens are so entertaining! They keep pecking at my shoelaces.”
She stops as soon as she gets close enough to see our faces. Looking first at my expression and then her father’s, her eyes widen.
“Daddy, what’s wrong? Is the chicken lady upset because I was with her hens?” Her little eyes are filled with worry. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
My face softens at her sweet round face and bouncy curls. “No honey, no one is mad at you.” I crouch down to her level. “In fact, if you want, you can run back to the porch. There’s a little bucket there with apples and celery and some other food scraps. You can give them to the chickens. They’ll love it.” My eyes flick up to Case’s before settling back on his pretty little girl. “If your Daddy says it’s okay.”
Her face unsure, she looks up at Case.
“Can I, Daddy?” she asks, but Case doesn’t answer. He’s staring at me and continues to do so until his daughter tugs on his arm.
I don’t wait to hear his response; I just turn and head into the barn.
Red-handed, pal. Red-handed.