Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
However, after my Post-it Lover had left me that ludicrously insulting note on my own danged pillowcase, I decided it was probably best not to be in a solitary space, alone with my thoughts. Instead, I’d motor into town. Check in with Abigail at the store. Grab some groceries. Maybe hit a few thrift shops.
Anything to take my mind off what happened the night before.
Oh sure, I was far from some naïve schoolgirl having been taken for one hell of a ride my first time.
I’d gotten picked up at a bar.
I had sex with a man three times, he’d gone down on me twice, I’d done the same to him once. It was energetic, sweaty, pulse-pounding, world-rocking, fiery, consuming, all the good things.
But even if he’d followed me into my house, I’d shrugged off my coat and told him, “I’m Mabel,” he hadn’t returned the favor of sharing his name.
Nope.
Instead, he’d kissed me.
And since he was also a deliriously good kisser, that was that.
There weren’t breaks where we had words of getting to know you.
It was all sex all the time. Even in our recovery times, there was foreplay happening.
I’d wanted to get picked up.
He picked me up.
We both got what was expected.
And then he left.
But honest to God, I’d rather he’d done that without that Post-it note because…what the hell was he thinking?
Thanks.
Was he serious?
“What an ass,” I muttered as I put the skillet on the draining board.
I dried my hands. Reached to the lotion a local artist Ida made (so luscious, I stocked it at my store). I rubbed it into my hands, and that done, I went to my denim jacket that I’d thrown over the back of the couch last night.
I shrugged it on, wound the fluffy, soft, thick, loose-knit beige winter scarf with the long fringe around and around my neck. I pulled my hair out from under it, slung on my crossbody and headed to the door.
I was digging my keys out of my bag so I could lock the door behind me when I stepped out on my knot-woven welcome mat and heard an odd crunch under my boot.
I looked down to see a folded piece of paper there, and I was lucky I didn’t step on the big rock that was holding it down on one side.
My heart thumped as I stepped back and bent to grab the paper.
Another note from my Post-it Lover?
One that said something like, Just kidding with that Post-it. Wanna meet for a drink tonight?
It was trifold, and my idiot heart thumped yet again as I opened it.
Then I stood still and stared at the words on the page.
The Lord knows the sins of the Jezebel. And we do too.
Abruptly, I came unstuck, retreated into my cabin, slammed the door and locked it.
Breathing heavily, I again stared at the page, reading the handwritten words again and again.
It took a second to realize my hand was shaking.
Violently.
“Okay, calm your shit, calm your shit,” I chanted, shifting from staring to scrutinizing.
The first thing I noticed was, although my Post-it Lover only scrawled six letters, this was not at all the same handwriting.
That was good.
All else was bad.
“Who is ‘we?’” I asked a piece of paper that couldn’t answer me.
I took several steps to the side, looking over the glorious, vintage writing desk I’d bought for fifty dollars, spent an entire week painstakingly restoring and set in front of the window, to the sun shining in the open space in front of my cabin.
Nothing was there but the dirt and boulders, my workshop off to the side, my truck parked out front, all of this ringed heavily with pines.
It wasn’t exactly a surprise when the anger started simmering.
What was a surprise was how fast and violently it boiled over.
I folded the paper, carefully tucked it in my crossbody, walked to the door, unlocked it, opened it, stepped out, slammed it, relocked and stomped to my truck.
“No,” I muttered after I got in and also slammed my truck door so hard, the whole vehicle shook. “Hell no,” I said as I jammed my key into the ignition and turned it. “This shit isn’t going to happen to me.”
I put the truck in reverse, curved out, shoved the clutch in first, then peeled out.
And I did this saying, “Not again.”
THREE
At A Glance
Mabel
I’d scoped several places to be my getaway after things careened viciously south down in Orlando.
The reason I picked Misted Pines was, well…the pines. All the rolling hills and mountains of glorious, gorgeous green Ponderosa, Douglas, western hemlock, red cedar, Englemann, Sitka and subalpine pine and fir trees.
Then there were the many lakes.
The famous fields of wildflowers.
And also, the little town of Misted Pines.
My besties, Kacey and Mona, were staunchly against me moving to this famously infamous small town in northeast Washington State.