Chapter 22
I can feel the red burning under my skin as Arlo stares at my back. Not that I know he’s looking at my back. Despite what I tell Lark daily, I do not have eyes in the back of my head. I have that mom’s intuition, and right now, it’s telling me that Arlo is staring me down.
Naturally, I decide the black fence is a lovely structure. It may as well be a Michelangelo sculpture with the way I run my fingers across the knots.
“Incredible craftsmanship,” I tell Arlo, though I refuse to look at him. That’s what I get for being a crazy woman.
“Yes, I will have to thank my paint sprayer the next time I head to the woodshed.”
“Be sure to give it a little extra oil in thanks.”
Arlo grunts behind me. “What are you doing, Birdie?”
I sigh in defeat. No amount of snark is going to get me through this moment. I turn around to face the firing squad, but all I see is a little disappointment in Arlo’s eyes that makes me wince.
“Okay, hear me out—”
“This ought to be good,” he mutters.
I hold up my hands and peer behind him to the strange garden. Is that a fern growing out of a car trunk? Shaking my head, I focus back on Arlo, though my curiosity for the garden backyard itches at my spine. I have so many questions.
“I was walking and sulking because, hey!” I slap his shoulder. “Did you know Robin got a cottage here?”
“You should truly talk to the doctor about that ADHD, it’s giving me whiplash.” He doesn’t budge when I slap him, and instead crosses his arms over his signature flannel and glares at me. His mohawk-like hair is beanie free and mildly distracting. My fingers itch to feel his silky strands.
I bet he’d share his conditioner. He’s the type of guy who would.
“Yes, well, we can’t all be perfect and focus on one subject at a time. Besides, what fun would that be?” I pretend to gag. “Really though, did you know?”
“Yes, now tell me why you were sulking.”
Traitor. I give him my very best stink eye, but he’s like that statue I claimed his fence to be.
My head is a weird place to be stranded right now.
“Right, well, I was sulking because he and Paris practically kicked me out of his new apartment. And I was thinking, and that’s not good for me, ya know? ”
“I’m learning this.”
“See? You catch on quick.” I beam at him, but he still doesn’t give me a single response I’m looking for, so I continue on. “Well, I saw the fence, and I didn’t want to sulk anymore.”
“You didn’t give me the reason you were sulking.”
“Totally did.”
“Birdie,” he growls.
“I was sulking because my brother is moving here and I felt weird. Like, why is he moving here ? How is that so easy for him to just do? It’s just not right. Some people shouldn’t be mentally able to just move from place to place like a gypsy.”
“Birdie.”
“He’s a gypsy. It’s official. We are no longer Irish but gypsies.” I tap my lips in thought. “Now, I was sulking because… Well, I already told you that, and I needed a distraction, and in my head, I thought—”
“You shouldn’t do that,” he cuts in.
“Well, too late now. I was thinking, and I thought to myself that fence looks like a fun rock wall to climb.”
“We have a rock wall at the drive-in,” he reminds me.
“Well, I couldn’t very well just head over there. I’m officially over the hill.”
“At thirty?”
“Crazy, isn’t it? My social security practically already applied itself to AARP for me.”
“Odd how they do that,” he chimes in.
“Exactly. How do they know?”
“You just said that, social security.”
I wave my hand at his comment. “Anyway…” I sigh, feeling a little breathless and a lot of breeze in my torn pants. “It’s really the fault of the fence.”
“How is this my fence’s fault?”
“It dared me to climb it.”
“You are deflecting.”
“Of course I am. You really do catch on quickly.”
“Get to the point, Wren.”
I rear back as though he slapped me by calling me my name, and I admit, I pout at that a little.
How dare he call me Wren? “I was feeling nosy, okay?” I throw my hands up.
“And I wanted to know what this fence was hiding. Which I was right. I always saw the fence but never thought to see what was on the other side. I never would have imagined a car garden.” I mutter the last bit to myself.
“So let me get this straight.” He shakes his head as though he just can’t believe the words that keep flying out of my mouth.
But if I’m being honest, neither can I. “You passed by my fence and needed a mental distraction, so instead of using the doorbell like a normal person, you climbed my fence.”
“Wrong,” I retort.
“How is that even wrong?”
“I didn’t know there was a doorbell.”
“You are impossible,” he growls at me.
“I know.” And because I’m feeling a little bit insane, I bop him on the nose like he’s Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in need of a carrot treat or a candy cane. I think I read somewhere that reindeer love candy canes. Or was it a movie?
Arlo rubs his temples, then a guffaw blows out of his mouth like an unexpected fart, startling me into wondering if it was a laugh or gas.
“What am I supposed to do with you?”
“Well, can we avoid calling Davis?” I wave at my derriere. “Because I’m feeling a little exposed.”
“Love the unicorns.”
“Thank you.”
“Do they have the right day on them?”
“Wednesday is written at the top. I mean, I have to remember what day it is, and the best way is my panties. I go to the bathroom and there it is, the reminder just in case I forget halfway through the day.”
He stands there stunned, not really sure what to do before turning around and stalking to the garage.
I heave out a sigh of relief, adrenaline dropping off that cliff and leaving me unsure of what to actually do with myself.
Especially considering that the seams of my jeans broke with the pressure of a nail, and I will somehow have to find my way back to the B&B without flashing the entire neighborhood my Wednesday unicorn panties.
This really should have been a third date scenario, but here we are.
Even though the chill of the day wraps around my goodies, I glance at the garage yard.
What is that even called? Salvage yard? Except that isn’t what I see here.
I mean, sure, it could be a junkyard, but there’s only one spare car and a shed, while varying shades of green foliage grow from trunks and hoods and even a toilet.
Now it’s autumn, and most of the plants sit on the dying end of things, but it’s no less beautiful.
Especially the shrubs growing out of a windshield of an old-school muscle car. Don’t ask me which, they all look the same to me. I only know Saffron’s because she made sure I understood her truck was a classic and how important it was not to crash it.
Ashamed and somewhat exhausted, I make my way to the back of the garage, where a large door opens out to the main road. Luckily, it’s closed.
“Here,” Arlo calls from somewhere up above, his voice echoing off the walls. The only car in here right now is mine, and it’s jacked up a few feet.
“What’s up there?”
“Tenth date access,” he replies, stomping down the steps. Halfway down, he tosses me a pair of sweatpants. “They should fit. If not, roll them up a few times. No one will notice on your walk of shame.”
I catch the offensive black ball of fabric. “That’s just mean.” I walk around so that my car sits between us as I toe off my shoes.
“You climbed my fence when there is a perfectly good doorbell for you to use.”
“I told you I didn’t know a doorbell existed.” I peel off my ruined jeans, and I toss them over the car at Arlo—after removing my keys and phone, of course. The latter of which is never locked.
“Ugh. Ruined.” I hear his footsteps as he clomps across the garage to hopefully throw them in a black bag that he ties before tossing them in the trash. I wouldn’t put it past the residents of this town to go trash picking.
The last thing the town needs to find is my jeans in his trash. Who knows what stories they’d concoct?
I roll up his sweats that hang off my body. Not even my voluptuous booty will keep these up, even though I tighten the strings as much as I can.
“Drive me home?” I question as I walk around, the drawstring wrapped around my wrist.
Arlo just stands there with a smug smile on his face, his mood drifting from grumpy to satisfied in two seconds flat.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Meatloaf,” I answer, knowing that Saffron is indeed making meatloaf for dinner with her perfected gravy that I cannot wait to sink my teeth into. I may even hum in satisfaction as my mouth salivates.
“Nope.” Once more, he takes up his stance. He stands with his jean-clad legs braced apart and his bulky arms crossed, testing the limits of his signature flannel.
I tap my lips in thought. “Walk of breaking and entering shame?”
“Oh, you are so close, Birdie,” he growls in his gravelly voice that sends all kinds of tingles to places I’m not sure I want to identify right this second.
I love our banter, and I never want it to end.
In fact, I could do this for the rest of the day and never tire of it.
Maybe I’ll do just that. Then, when it’s nice and dark out, which around here is about nine—oh yes, the sun begins its descent toward the horizon at seven, but it isn’t dark until nine—it will be safe to walk unseen.
“Okay, rock wall.”
“Fourth date.”
“Got to get to the third date first, Arlo.” My fingers itch to grab the front of his flannel and drag him closer.
“Got to commit, Birdie,” he retorts.
“Why do you have to call me out like that?” I wave my hands between us. “This back and forth was coming along so well. Don’t give up on me now, knight in flannel armor.”