Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
The window of Rye’s car rolled down and Rye stuck his arm out, elbow resting on the door, fingers trailing through the air. The wind whipped strands of his hair out the window too, where it flapped like dark wings.
He turned left on Lennox, right on Oakcrest, and then swung onto Owl Creek Road. It was the route Charlie took to his brother’s house. He decided he’d text Jack later and invite him and his boyfriend Simon over for dinner next week. Simon liked a lot of notice for social plans; it eased his anxiety if he had time to mentally prepare.
Rye slowed at the turnoff just before Jack’s. Crow Lane was a long dirt path through the trees that terminated in a clearing and a house. A house that looked like the before shot in a home renovation show where a home was saved from demolition.
Had Rye bought the place to fix up? To flip? Certainly not, when he clearly had no experience with construction.
Rye got out of his car swearing at it, shoved his hands in his pockets, and glared at Charlie.
“My brother lives about a half mile south of you,” Charlie told him, nodding in that direction.
Rye nodded. He started pulling the lumber out of the truck and carrying it to the dilapidated house. Charlie followed him, dropping his own armload beside Rye’s, on the front stoop.
“Did you buy this place?” Charlie asked, when no explanation seemed forthcoming.
“Inherited it,” Rye said.
Charlie’s stomach clenched. Had Jack’s neighbor been Rye’s parent?
“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” Charlie said haltingly.
Rye waved him away.
“I didn’t even know him. My grandfather. I dunno why he left it to me. No one else to leave it to, I guess?”
And he walked past Charlie to get another load of wood from the truck.
“Are you going to live here once it’s fixed up?” Charlie asked.
“That’s the plan.”
“Where are you staying until then?”
Rye raised an eyebrow. “You ask a lotta questions for a total stranger out in the middle of the woods.”
Charlie raised his hands, palms out.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Just, we don’t get that many new people moving to town. I was curious.”
“Well, I’m not gonna murder your brother in his sleep or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I am now,” Charlie muttered.
For the first time, Rye’s mouth quirked into a smile, revealing sharp, slightly overlapping teeth and a dimple.
A mew came from behind Rye.
“I better...” He gestured to the house and the lumber.
“Sure.”
“Thanks. For the tarp and the help.”
Charlie knew he should just nod and leave but he couldn’t help himself.
“This looks like quite the job. Do you have people helping you? Experience in demo and construction? Because if you want—”
“Either you’ve got a mad hero complex or you’re bossy as hell, man,” Rye said.
Charlie drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t insignificant.
“Who says it isn’t both?” he said. “I’m Charlie, by the way. Charlie Matheson.” Then he winked and walked back to the truck.
He only let his eyes flick toward Rye for an instant as he threw the truck into gear, but he thought the man was smiling.
Chapter Three
Rye
Charlie Matheson was huge, with broad shoulders, muscular arms, large, rough hands, and a jaw like a superhero, even if it was hidden under a reddish-brown beard. He had short reddish-blond hair with a bit of a wave to it, and his eyes were a hazel that reminded Rye of the woods around his new house.
He was kind and hot and bossy and irritatingly pleased with himself for being helpful. But he had saved Rye three trips.
Rye dragged the wood inside after Charlie left, pulling his sleeves down over his hands to avoid splinters. Marmot sniffed the wood, then jumped onto it, walking each board like a balance beam, leaving tiny damp paw prints.
The YouTube video had said to shore up the structure by placing 2x4s that ran from the floor to the ceiling.
“Okay, so we just stand these up and, like, nail them...to...shit, what do we nail them to?”
Marmot looked on as he stood up the first 2x4, little face cocked curiously.
It didn’t fit. There was at least an inch between the top of the 2x4 and the ceiling.
“What the hell? I measured you!” Rye accused the room.
He tried another 2x4 with the same results. Then he moved the 2x4 to a different spot along the wall. This time it was too long.
“Shit,” Rye muttered. “You janky motherfucker.”
After much trial, error, and swearing, Rye was able to fit three of the 2x4s into places that actually were nine feet tall. He couldn’t nail them in place—the floor was too soft and he couldn’t reach the ceiling—but probably just having them there was helping hold things up. Right?
With a full-body sigh and a lancing glare at the pile of misfit wood, Rye got back in his car.