Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
The property is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s not that far from town, yet it feels like you’re in your own world nestled among the trees. Wildlife sings from every angle—from the fields surrounding the house, to the forest that starts on the edges of the very same fields, and from the sky expanding endlessly above us.
Still, somehow, it’s quiet.
Gus spins in a circle, taking it all in. “I’ve never been to a farm before. What’s in that barn?”
“I think it’s a ranch,” I say.
“Call it whatever the hell you want. Same difference—to me, anyway,” Gray says, smiling. “And I have little to no idea what’s in that barn except for a pig.”
“You’re serious?” Gus asks, facing him. “A real pig?”
“Yup. Named Pigasso.” Gray looks at me. “Don’t ask.”
“A pig named Pigasso,” Gus says, snorting as we follow Gray into the house.
The steps are sturdy as we trudge up them, passing a goose statue dressed up in a raincoat and boots. Gus and I exchange a look as we cross the doorway. We nearly make it inside before a voice welcomes us from the kitchen.
“Hello, there,” a woman says, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’s older, probably in her sixties, with a grandmotherly vibe. Her smile is as wide as her hips.
“This is Cathy,” Gray says. “Cathy, this is Jory and Gus.”
“Oh, I remember you. I’ve been to a few Royals games.” She smiles at me. “It’s nice to officially meet you.” She turns to Gus. “You look like a man who likes cookies. Am I right?”
Gus’s shoulders slump in relief. “You couldn’t be righter if you tried. I’m practically starving, to be honest, because this guy”—he jams his thumb over his shoulder in my general direction—“thinks heat-up pizzas can be eaten for a week straight. I haven’t seen food from an actual food group since he picked me up.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, laughing.
“I have never been more prepared to fix someone’s problem than I am right now.” Cathy points at a stool at the island, then turns to the refrigerator. “Gus, sit. I have fried chicken, meatloaf, and a little bit of Salisbury steak left from last night. Probably have an ear of corn in here, along with some baked beans. I can always make a fresh batch of mashed potatoes if you'd like. What sounds good, kiddo?”
“Um, all of it,” Gus says.
I take a step forward. “He’s exaggerating. Please don’t feel obligated—”
“Shush.” Cathy gives me a look like my mother gives me when she’s really saying shut the fuck up, Jory. “No one invited you into this conversation.”
“You’re fighting a losing battle,” Gray says with a slight shrug.
Gus smirks at me from the stool.
“Go on,” Cathy says, shooing us away. “Go do your business somewhere else. Gus and I will find you after his belly is full.”
“I really like it here,” Gus says, grinning at me.
Hell, maybe I should take his advice. He has women eating out of the palm of his hand wherever we go.
“You behave.” I lift a brow. “And remember your manners.”
“We’re gonna walk around and will probably wind up at the cabin,” Gray tells Cathy. “If you call when you’re finished, we can come get him.”
“I don’t know why you’re still here,” Cathy says, pulling out plates from the fridge.
Gray shakes his head. “Let’s go.”
I give my son a pointed look before following my friend outside.
A breeze kicks up as soon as we’re on the gravel and the flag hanging off the porch whips in the wind. We walk shoulder to shoulder down the lane in silence.
“Are you going to explain Pigasso?” I ask, curious.
“Hartley’s wife, Mira, bought it at an auction. This was before they were back together. It was an impulse purchase, and she had nowhere to take it, so she sent it here and then begged for Hart’s forgiveness rather than permission.”
Mira. I kick a rock, smiling. If she’s anything like her sister, that makes total sense.
It’s wild to me how much I’ve learned about Markie without really even trying—too hard, anyway. I’ve been in Sugar Creek for a week and am starting to understand the lore around small towns. Growing up in a metropolitan area and then living in different cities throughout my adult life, I’ve never understood how your neighbors could possibly know your whole business.
I’m starting to get it. You never truly have any privacy. There’s no escape, no way to become invisible.
Markie is everywhere—the farmers’ market, the park. We waved at each other as she left the grocery store yesterday and I pulled in. I spotted her at the gas station and overheard a table of old men talking about her at Piper’s Pizza today at lunch. I think they were making bets on the pickleball tournament. And now she’s popping up in a conversation with my teammate.