Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
It’s at that moment I make a firm decision.
Whatever happens, and whatever I do, I’ll be sure to keep far, far away from Wyatt Ford. No matter what, I have to avoid him at all costs . . . wedding or otherwise.
Chapter 4
HAZEL
I bump the front door with my hip, trying to open it without dropping the precious bag of goodies I’m balancing in my hands, all the while knowing the highest-value item is the to-go cup of white wine I had the bartender pour. Thankfully I’m successful, but my inner celebration is cut short by a siren followed by a loud automated voice . . .
Woo-ee-woo-ee
Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Call 9-1-1!
Police have been notified.
Woo-ee-woo-ee
This would be concerning . . . if I actually had an alarm system. But I don’t. What I have is a loudmouthed gray parrot, who is currently perched on the back of one of my dinette chairs and giving me an evil glare.
“Lester! Shut up! You better not have called the cops again.” The or else is heavily implied.
“Bawk! Bitch! Bawk!”
There are times I really wish that bird couldn’t talk. Meanwhile, I beeline for the kitchen, setting the bag of food and Styrofoam cup on the counter to grab the phone from the wall. I listen to see if there’s an open line anywhere in the house but thankfully get only a dial tone.
The 9-1-1 operators know Lester well, considering the number of times he’s actually called them. But that was mostly when he was my Gran’s companion, and she did occasionally need help, so we were thankful for that particular party trick of his. Since she passed a few years ago and I inherited Lester, the operators have taken to double-checking before sending anyone out, mostly because of an incident involving me, Deputy Milson, and a baseball bat. In my defense, he peeked in my bedroom window while I was changing clothes and I thought he was a Peeping Tom. I was well within my rights to swing that Louisville Slugger. The first time.
“Bwahahawk!” It’s Lester’s version of gotcha as he laughs, his big feathery head bobbing like he’s really proud of himself.
“I oughta pluck your feathers and cook you up for Sunday dinner,” I threaten, not meaning a word of it. Truth be told, Lester and I are buds. But sometimes, the best friends are the ones who give each other shit.
“Lester too salty.” And now my bird is talking about himself in the third person. Great. “But he’s a pretty bird. Bawk! Pretty bird!”
I can’t argue with that. He is a beautiful specimen, gray with a white mask around his eyes and a shock of deep red feathers as a tail. “You are a pretty bird. And do you know what pretty—and well-behaved—birds get to do?” His beady black eyes flick around, then focus on me intently. “Go visit Aunt Etta. You wanna go for a visit?”
Aunt Etta’s little cottage is visible through the window over the kitchen sink. Back when she had the pink house with white trim and shutters built, it was a compromise with Gran, who needed some careful supervision but refused to have anyone, strangers or family, living with her. Independent until the end, she did things her way and left a legacy of strength, boldness, and take-no-prisoners sass. All of which means Aunt Etta, Mom, and I are peas in a very small pod.
After Gran’s death, Aunt Etta didn’t have any interest in moving into Gran’s house with her own so close by. Mom also refused, wanting to keep her space above her downtown bakery so that she could go between work and home at the drop of a hat. We also didn’t want it to be sold. I mean, the house meant a lot to us.
So it seemed only natural for the house—and Lester—to go to me. I happily moved into the small ranch house that held so many of my childhood memories.
“Bawk! Let’s go, bitch!” Lester flies over, perching on my shoulder. His claws dig into my skin a little bit, but I’m mostly used to it and he’s exceedingly careful to be gentle.
I should do something about his foul language, but it’s too late now. He learned from Gran, Aunt Etta, Mom, and me. And there’s no telling what my brother, Jesse, has taught him. Hell, he probably has old Lester spying on me and reporting back details of my actions. I wouldn’t put something like that past Jesse. He’s my brother and I love him, but he forgets that I can handle myself sometimes and acts like he’s the only thing keeping me from a shallow grave or prison, which is ironic considering he had the chance to move into Gran’s house, too, but he laughed his ass off at the idea of bringing a woman out here: “I’d be lucky to live long enough to date. More likely, Aunt Etta would call me a ‘typical dick-led asshole’ if I tried to get laid and bury me in the back forty after running off anyone I tried to spend time with.”