Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Or a book for those of us with imaginations.”
I smack his shoulder playfully. He chuckles, his dimples dotting his cheeks. Those little dents trigger a wave of warmth throughout my body, and I look away before he can see the heat in my face.
We pull into the village with neat homes and manicured lawns spaced out perfectly from one another. Some of them have white fences, others have window boxes filled with beautiful flowers. Nearly every house that we pass has a porch swing, and all of them are adorable.
Gray rolls down our windows, stretching his arm out of his to wave at a middle-aged woman sweeping the sidewalk. The fresh air filling the cab is sweetly scented. It’s a balm to my perpetually overstimulated nervous system.
“That was Amanda LaRoche,” Gray says, pulling his arm back inside the truck. “I went to school with her daughter.” He points at a small brick building with black shutters. “That’s Doc Buckley’s office. He’s delivered most of the people in Sugar County at this point. He used to come to the elementary school every winter dressed up like Santa Claus.” Gray starts laughing, looking at me with a sparkle in his eye. “My buddy, Brooks, ended that when we were in fifth grade. He fished his keys out of his pocket. Then when the staff was looking for them later, he held them up and said, ‘I found these, but they can’t be Santa’s because they have a tag on it for Doc’s office.’”
“What a little shit,” I say, laughing, too.
He turns the truck down a road to our right, and I can’t help but notice how relaxed Gray seems. The pinch that usually lives between his eyes has magically disappeared, and the muscle connecting his neck to his shoulders isn’t flexed. His lips press together as if he’s holding back a grin. He’s less devil, more devilishly handsome. I can’t decide whether I like it or hate it.
“What is that?” I scoot to the edge of my seat and try to focus on a blur racing from the post office to the fire department. “Is that …” I narrow my eyes. “A cat with three legs?”
“Yup. That’s Blooper. He had an unfortunate accident with Biscuit Jones’s lawnmower probably twenty or thirty years ago.”
“Um, I don’t think cats live that long.”
“Maybe not average cats, but Blooper isn’t average.”
“Oh, of course not,” I say, giggling.
“I mean it.” He stops at a sign and then turns left. “Half of the houses in Sugar Creek have a cat house outside for him in case he stays the night. Everyone keeps food and water out for the little guy. When the weather is bad, he holes up with the firefighters.”
“Why doesn’t someone just take him in?”
“Someone tried once upon a time, but legend has it that Blooper fought a ghost, tore down all the family’s curtains, and pissed on everything they owned. No one else has been ballsy enough to try to capture him again.”
I huff. “I’d try it, the poor thing.”
“You would, huh?” He smiles. “I’d like to see that. One feral animal against the other.”
“You’re such a jackass,” I say, turning away so he doesn’t see my grin.
Gray slows the truck and stops at another sign. It’s more of a roll-stop since no one else is around, and we turn onto a street on a slight slope. Hanging baskets hold flowers cascading down the streetlamps with whiskey barrels sitting below. There’s a flower shop, Piper’s Pizza, and a small building on the end with a sign reading Brew Ha Ha.
“Is that a coffee shop?” I ask, laughing.
“Cheesy, huh?”
“No way. It’s clever.”
“Whatever you say,” Gray says.
He stops the truck in the middle of the road and throws it in reverse. His arm extends along the back of my seat with his large hand gripping my headrest. My heart thunders in my chest as he glances casually over his shoulder and pilots the truck perfectly into the center of a spot.
Damn.
“We’re here,” he says, fishing his wallet and keys out of the console.
I clear my throat and gather my things while shoving away the photographs my brain snapped of Gray only moments ago. The competence. The confidence. His body language screams that he knows what he’s doing, and he’s damn good at it.
I’m really losing my effing mind.
Clutching my purse, I hop out of the truck without breaking my neck. Gray meets me on the sidewalk but avoids eye contact by dipping his head to slide a black hat low on his forehead. “Ready?” he asks.
I pat my purse. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Gray leads me to an oversized window with green-and-gold sign lettering on the glass. Jewell Law. He opens the door and waits for me to enter first.
The room is straight out of another era—green carpet, a standing ashtray, and a giant framed map of Sugar County that I’m sure was once white and not faded yellow. There’s a desk in the center, but no one’s staffing it.