Coen (Pittsburgh Titans #4) Read Online Sawyer Bennett

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Pittsburgh Titans Series by Sawyer Bennett
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Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
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When I hang up, I settle back in the chair to finish my beer. I revel in imagining the look on Tilden Marshall’s face when she gets served with the injunction.

I wonder if she’ll stomp over here to tear me a new one, and I also wonder why I’m not overly put out by the possibility that she might do so.

Christ… I might even look forward to it.

CHAPTER 5

Tillie

Grabbing my list off the kitchen table, I review it one more time to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. I have to run into town for errands, the most important of which is a package waiting for me at the post office containing replacement watercolor supplies. I order in bulk, and it’s expensive, thus I use the post office for my deliveries. I can’t take a chance on someone stealing packages from my porch.

Post office.

Grocery store.

Pharmacy.

Lunch with Hayley.

I can be back home by three p.m. for when I rescheduled my meeting with the general contractor about the new driveway. I can’t start construction on the actual building until I have an access point for the building equipment to enter.

Of course, I can’t get the access point until I cut down the trees. That needs to happen sooner rather than later, and John is coming back out tomorrow morning for us to mark the trees. I’m moving forward, full steam ahead.

Stuffing the list in my purse, I nab my keys from the tiny hook near the door and swing it open.

Only to screech in fright as someone is standing there with arm raised as if poised to knock. I quickly process it’s not just anyone, but a sheriff’s deputy. He’s older—late fifties, I’d guess—but with a thick neck, huge barrel chest, and meaty arms. Clearly, he works out a lot.

“Oh, hello… good morning,” I say with a bright smile. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he replies with a tip of his head. “Just getting ready to knock.”

His tone is grave, and the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. “Is everything okay?”

“Are you Tilden Marshall?” he asks, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck.

“Yes,” I reply hesitantly.

The man pushes a large manila envelope at me. “I’m afraid I have to serve this on you.”

“Serve?” I clutch the envelope and look down at the rectangular mailing label with my name and address. My gaze lifts, and he tips his head again. “Have a nice day.”

The deputy trots down the porch steps, and before his foot hits the ground, I tear into the envelope. I pull out a two-page document neatly stapled in the upper right corner.

I start reading, and some words glare at me.

State of Pennsylvania

County of Potter

Notice of Temporary Injunction

Vaguely, I hear the deputy slam his car door and start the engine, reversing out of my driveway, the crunch of gravel under his tires. My eyes fly over the words as I try to comprehend them.

Words and phrases stick out:

Coen Highsmith

Questionable easement for current zoning

Tree removal and any other destruction to the land

It is hereby ordered…

And then my eyes focus on the most important thing. It says an injunction is in place preventing me from making any changes to the easement, in particular cutting down trees and building a driveway from the main road, until such time as a hearing can be set to determine the appropriate uses of said easement.

“What the absolute fuck?” I snarl as I read the document once more.

Something else prickles at me now—a feeling that I’m being watched—and I raise my head.

The deputy’s car is gone, but standing at the end of my driveway near the road—a mere fifty feet away—is the asshole responsible for the papers in my hand.

He’s wearing cargo shorts, a navy T-shirt, and hiking shoes. He’s smiling like a damn Cheshire cat, and it suddenly occurs to me, he made sure he was here to watch the deputy serve me these papers.

The man’s grin spreads wider, and he waves. “Good reading?” he calls out.

“If you like works created by assholes,” I shout back.

He’s not offended in the slightest, as evidenced by the hearty laugh that floats across my yard and assaults my ears. “I’m sure the judge wouldn’t like you calling him that.”

“I’m talking about you,” I growl, flying down the steps and stomping down my driveway. I swear I feel steam coming out of my ears. I march right up to him, tip my head back, and inform him, “You’re the asshole.”

“That’s original,” he drawls with a smirk, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes dance with amusement, and his bearing reminds me of someone who is taking pride in winning a game.

Totally full of himself.

I wave the papers. “This won’t stop me.”

“It will for now,” he quips. Moving a few steps back, he points at me mockingly and enunciates his words with faux politeness, “You… have a great day.”


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