Chapter 2
Itilted my head and watched from the back porch as he adjusted strands of twinkle lights strung around a large picnic table, his tattoos peeking out above his collar and beneath his sleeves.
Did the tattoos cover his back? What about his chest? Did they snake around his torso and down toward his thighs? Of all the things I could have wondered about on this dreary Wednesday morning, tattoos should have been the last thing on my mind.
I gripped the certified letter that had arrived yesterday, creasing the sides as I tore my eyes away from the elusive neighbor and reread the words that had occupied my thoughts since I’d ripped it open.
Inheritance.
Heir.
Estranged.
My second cup of coffee did little to alleviate the anxiety that had taken root in my belly as I mulled over my life—all while pretending I wasn’t stealing glances at the man across the yard.
I wondered why he had a permanent scowl across his sharp features.
Or why he’d shown up at the condo that shared a large backyard with my dad’s, only to sulk around the yard, taking over an hour to complete some mundane task that would have taken the average person five minutes.
His constant muttering carried across the space, a low, gravelly voice that would normally have my panties wet if he didn’t exude the personality of a dirty dishrag.
It would have made my life easier to only wonder about the small, stupid things I’d observed from the porch, but nothing about my life was easy these days.
Perhaps that’s why I pushed aside the drama and spent my time obsessing over tattoos on a man who’d maybe spoken three words to me since I moved in.
It wasn’t that I had anything against the ink.
I just failed to see the appeal of permanent marks on your body.
Sure, that cute little butterfly looked fabulous on your lower back when you were twenty.
But fast-forward thirty years, and the poor thing was now a droopy buzzard with sad eyes and muted colors—not that my non-inked body was anything to write home about.
I tugged the elastic from the top of my head, shaking my hair as it fell over my eyes and obstructed the view of Mr. Personality next door.
The certified letter felt like a sick joke.
It was too good to be true, right? Some unknown relative from some faraway country left me a ridiculous amount of money, and I only found out they existed via a piece of mail that arrived less than a week after I left my cheating husband and moved in with my dad.
Things like this did not happen in real life.
I was not the main character in a Hallmark movie, and I was far from a random heroine who moved across the state to open a specialty cupcake shop in a small town only to realize the love she’d been searching for was right in front of her all along. Nope.
I was simply Summer Winston—a recently separated, middle-aged woman with fluff around her middle and a work-from-home job for a pharmaceutical company.
Yoga pants were my best friend, and my feet hadn’t seen the inside of heels in a decade.
My hair needed a trim, my nail polish was chipped, and I was sporting a giant zit on my forehead, proving beyond a reasonable doubt that adult acne was real and even worse than I remembered it from my teen years.
A particularly loud grunt came from the next yard, and I watched as Mr. Tattoo carried a giant pumpkin down the porch steps and toward a thriving garden.
Switch out his baseball cap for a Stetson and add a gun belt, and this Adonis could be strutting down a dirt path in some seventies Western, ready to defend the town against scandalous outlaws.
Men like him didn’t know they walked a certain way—with a certain swagger—they just did it, not realizing the world around them had paused, turning to watch.
The sunflowers were almost as tall as he was, and large tomatoes hung from green, leafy vines.
Dark bricks bordered the vibrant area, and the scents of lavender and rosemary filled the air and drifted to my side of the yard.
The smell was comforting, reminding me of my childhood and how my mother loved cooking with fresh herbs.
Another noise traveled across the yard as I focused back on the now frustrated man.
I watched as he sat the pumpkin next to an oddly shaped topiary, scratching his beard before moving the orange beast to a different part of the yard.
He repeated the cycle three more times, unhappy with where the vegetable ended up.
It was oddly reassuring. If this guy could spend his morning getting bent out of shape about the placement of a pumpkin, then my numb reaction to a potentially life-changing letter was perfectly normal.
Clutching the inheritance letter like a lifeline, I watched as he removed his hat from his head.
With a graceful twitch of his hand, he wiped his forearm across his brow, muscles rippling as he rolled his shoulders.
The physical display was a testament to his strength, and my eyes were glued to his body like a shameless voyeur.
“Summer! Where the hell are you?”
I jumped, knocking my coffee cup from the edge of the lounge chair I’d been sprawled across. It cracked in two, splattering the sweetened drink across the wooden planks. Swearing loudly, I bent and picked up the pieces, allowing my gaze to travel one last time to Mr. Pumpkin Mover.
His eyes were on mine—piercing and intense.
While his head tilted to the side, lips set in a firm line, he held my gaze, arching one eyebrow.
I didn’t blink, using the time to peruse his form: Viking tall with dark hair brushed carelessly across his forehead, a few streaks of gray along the sides and through the top.
The gray suited him, giving him an aura of maturity—not to mention throwing him well into silver fox territory.
Shaking my head at the ridiculous thoughts, I tore my eyes away, stuffed the letter into the pocket of my pajama pants, and turned toward the partially open sliding glass door.
Pushing it the rest of the way open, I refused to look back, rushing through and toward my dad, who had the fridge door open and a fierce scowl across his features.
“What is this vegan bacon bullshit, Summer?” he asked, tossing the box onto the counter and bracing his arms on the fridge door to peer back inside.
“That’s what happens when you have a heart attack and triple bypass, Dad.
No salt, saturated fat, alcohol, or stress.
I know you remember the doctor going over your new diet, so why are you acting surprised?
This vegan bacon bullshit is because you told me you were a vegan!
Believe me, I could do without incorporating bean sprouts and tofu into your diet. ”
“My veganism only lasted until that documentary on food additives ended. It is not the lifestyle for me.”
“Ugh. Well, we’re both stuck eating it until my next trip to the store. And your doctor specifically said you had to drastically change your diet.”
“But I’m hungry,” he whined, sounding like a petulant toddler mid-growth spurt, and not a senior citizen recovering from open-heart surgery.
“I know, but you shouldn’t be walking around. Let’s get you settled back in the recliner and I’ll fix you something.”
“Vegan bacon?” He questioned, crossing one arm over his chest and grabbing my shoulder with the other. “I’d rather starve.”
“Oh? Perhaps tofu sausage then.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he scoffed, holding firmly onto my arm as we trudged back to the recliner. His feet shuffled along the hardwood living room floor, and I scrunched my forehead, not liking how easy it would be for him to slip and fall.
“I would if your attitude doesn’t change. How about an egg white omelet with vegetables and cheese?”
“Real cheese?” He gritted his teeth as I bent my knees and braced my feet to help him settle into the chair.
He snatched the heart pillow as I handed it to him, clutching it to his chest as he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and grimaced.
I could not imagine the amount of pain he was in.
If there was anything positive about my current situation—including moving in with him since I had no place else to go—it was that I had the time to help him recover.
“Sure. Swiss okay?”
I returned to the kitchen, not waiting for him to answer before grabbing the fake butter but real cheese from the still-open fridge.
“That is acceptable,” he said, loud enough for me to hear. I rolled my eyes but smirked as I grabbed a pan and turned on the stovetop.
“Hey, Dad. Those tomatoes in the garden next door look amazing. I bet they’d make a fake bacon sandwich edible. Does your neighbor ever share?”
“Bev?” he said as I peeked around the corner to check on him. His face had a weird expression, and not for the first time, I wondered what the deal was with those two.
“Yeah, and the guy who’s always there.”
“Oh, that’s one of her sons. I can never tell them apart, but she has four. None of them live with her, but you wouldn’t know that based on how often I see them clomping around in the backyard. Can you believe that woman had the nerve to put double-sided tape on my tires?”
“Well, that’s a random thing to do,” I called as I sliced bell peppers and onions. I wasn’t a fan of cooking, but simple things like omelets and casseroles were easy, and no one complained—except Trey. He hated my cooking, no matter how easy or complicated the recipe was.
I pushed thoughts of my ex out of my mind as I added a bit of cheese to the omelet and plated it along with some strawberries. Never being much of a breakfast person, I grabbed a new coffee mug and filled it before taking the meal to Dad.
“What made her put tape on your tires?” I asked, handing him the plate and sitting on the couch next to his recliner.
“I may have been a little grumpy when we first met.”
Ah, his personality strikes again.
“Oh, Dad. What did you do?”