Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
8
duke
I have to spend the day fixing this damn patio rail.
The one I busted with my own damn ass; I should have known the fucking thing wouldn’t hold my weight the second the baseboards creaked and squeaked when I’d lain on the hammock.
Oh well. No sense in dwelling on it.
Besides, it’ll give me something to keep my mind off work.
I’d had a call with Eli this morning—the bastard had woken me from a dream—about finalizing the statement that together, the head coach and I will be making to the press at the press conference Eli was in the process of scheduling:
“It is with great pleasure the Dallas Steers are happy to announce that we have acquired Duke Colter from the New York Condors—we are thrilled to have him as a part of this team, and we believe he’s going to be a key asset for us as starting wide receiver.”
The floor will then be open for a few questions, all of which will be handled by the general manager, the coach. Eli and I sit quietly on the side, me with a pleasant smile on my face.
I wish we could get it over with and get the show on the road. All this waiting is making me stir-crazy.
I pull the broken piece of wood from the deck and toss it down into the yard with confidence, having fixed and mended a million railings. Barbed wire fencing.
A noise catches my attention that’s not coming from my hammer removing nails, followed by a flash of bright yellow in my peripheral.
I set the hammer down and stop yanking.
Turn my head to see a gray-haired woman watching me from her yard; I see eyes, hair, and her nose but not much of the rest of her.
I set out to ignore her, but it’s impossible—I’m used to people watching me. Fans mostly, who stare when I’m in public because they’re too nervous to approach or don’t want to bother me. But this? This little old lady is lurking.
I’m crouched on one knee when she addresses me. “You there.”
Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun, I glance over at her. “Hi.”
She’s completely entered stare-down mode from her spot on the other side of the hedgerow, the handle of an unknown gardening tool visible now—as if she’s wielding a pitchfork to stab me with if I so much as go near her.
“Who are you?”
Who am I? Who is she? Jeez, this broad is worse than my grandmother Sissy, who used to barrel race in the rodeo. Tough as nails my grandma was… not as thorny as this woman.
“Just the handyman fixing the deck, ma’am.” I shoot her a megawatt smile guaranteed to thaw her frozen exterior.
The end of her rake makes an appearance.
A warning.
“Do you need anything, ma’am?”
“Don’t worry about me—you worry about that porch for Ms. Kettner and no funny business or I’m calling the cops.” Her eyes are narrowed.
Wouldn’t the cops be stoked to find me back here, mending this railing? Bet they’d take a few selfies.
I bet she is.
“No worries, ma’am. I won’t be making any noise this afternoon.”
“I’m watching you.” I hear her unhappy hmph as she stands there. “My grandson is in the military.”
“I thank him for his service.”
’Cause what else is there to say?
After a few more awkward moments, Granny moves on, tiny head and gray hair disappearing from sight. No doubt she’ll be back. Probably gonna go spy on me from her second story window.
And she thinks I’m the creeper here?
Pfft.
Whatever granny…
The back door opens.
Soft footsteps come closer.
“Here. I made you some lemonade.” A plate gets set nearby, along with a tall glass of something sweet. “And cookies.”
Cookies?
She made lemonade and cookies?
Hot damn.
Being roommates with Miss Goody Two-Shoes has its perks. She can’t stop herself from taking care of me whether she wants to or not; food is her love language. Er, how she expresses herself and takes care of people is what I meant…
“Thanks.” I steal a cookie from the plate; it’s still warm, the center chocolatey goodness when I bite in. Fuck, this is good. I chase it down with lemonade—the two don’t go together, but somehow, it works. Swallow.
Wipe my mouth with the back of my shirtsleeve. “You missed the old lady fangirling at me from over the fence.”
Posey is silent for a few seconds. “Mrs. Galvin?”
Is that her name? “Yup, she was gawkin’ over at me. Told me she’d call the cops if I did anything sketchy.”
“Mrs. Galvin?”
I glance up at her. “Do you have any other old lady neighbors who want to stab me with their rakes?”
“But she’s so…tiny.”
I shove the remaining cookie into my gullet. “Haven’t you seen that documentary about psychotic roommates? One of them is an old lady who slowly poisons the woman living in her house.”
“But she’s the neighbor, not your roommate.”