Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82888 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Sweeping my arm in a low arc, I ask, “Who’s going to see you? The squirrels?”
She nibbles on her lip with a dubious expression before shaking her head. “Nope. I’ll just hold it.”
Letting out a faux groan of annoyance, I roll to my hip and push myself up. “I have to pee, and I’m not going to wait.”
“You’re just going to squat and go?” she asks in awe. “And what… air dry? Use a leaf to wipe?”
I wrinkle my nose. “What do you think I am, a barbarian?” I reach into my backpack, pulling out a Ziploc bag. Holding it up, I proclaim, “Tissue and an extra baggie for disposal.”
“Genius,” Ann Marie exclaims, but then her expression hardens. “But no… I’ll pass.”
“Sissy,” I proclaim, feeling like quite the expert naturalist as I hop off the rock and follow the path around a small bend where I saw a gathering of mountain laurel that I can use for privacy. “Be right back.”
“Take your time,” Ann Marie drawls, picking up the wine bottle.
I hurry down the trail to the bushes. I glance around and see nothing but sprawling forest and hear nothing but the sound of birds in the treetops.
Oh, and I hear Ann Marie singing Lizzo’s “About Damn Time,” which makes me laugh. She’s a favorite of ours, especially because she’s all about self-love, no matter your size or shape.
I toss the Ziploc on the ground, position myself with my butt angled away from the slant of the hill so I don’t pee on myself, and unzip my shorts.
I’m usually not an overly shy person, but after I squat, it takes a minute for my brain and bladder to connect. When I’m finally able to start, I sigh with relief because it would’ve been embarrassing to have to admit that I needed to go back to my house just for a potty break.
A twig snaps in the distance, and my head whips that way. It almost throws me off-balance, but I steady myself. More branches crack, and it sounds like something much larger than a squirrel, but I can’t see well through the thick laurels I’m squatted behind.
Quickly, I grab the baggie, nab the tissues, and wipe. Still squatting, I tuck them back in the bag so I can throw them away at home. Whatever is moving through the woods is coming closer, and fast.
Like, way fast.
Except now the intruder seems to be coming from behind me, and I’m disoriented. Maybe the forest’s peaks and valleys are bouncing the sound around, but I’m convinced it’s a bear.
A fucking bear out of hibernation and hungry for a curvy, wine-soaked woman.
“Shit,” I mutter as I stand, dragging my panties up first. I grab for my shorts and start to haul them up, too, but the sound is so close, I can’t wait any longer. I start running while trying to jerk my clothes back into place. I come around the thicket of mountain laurels and slam into something so hard, I bounce backward and onto my ass that’s only half covered by my shorts.
I scream in terror, waiting for the bear to pounce, when I take in the fact it’s not a hairy beast after all.
It’s a man.
A decidedly unhairy man, as he’s not wearing a shirt and has a smooth chest drenched in sweat that trickles over ripped abs and down into low-slung running shorts.
My gaze runs back up and skids to a screeching halt as I take in two things at once.
The man is undeniably gorgeous with dark, shaggy hair and even darker eyes, even though he’s sweaty and panting from what I’m thinking was a strenuous run. He does have a short beard, but that doesn’t put him in bear territory.
And… he’s staring at me, lying on the ground with my shorts barely over my white panties.
I frantically pull them up, somehow managing to button them on the first try, and scramble to my feet without closing the zipper.
As I whirl to face him, Ann Marie skids around the bushes, gripping the wine bottle by the neck, poised to attack.
“You get away from her,” she snarls, brandishing her makeshift weapon.
The man doesn’t flinch but pulls music buds from his ears. “Not nice to threaten a man on his own land. You’re trespassing, by the way.”
“We’re not trespassing,” I exclaim, tugging at my zipper. “This is my land. These are my trails.”
“Wrong,” he says blandly.
“No, you’re wrong,” I retort.
“Where do you live?” Ann Marie demands, still holding the wine bottle slightly raised.
“Honeycutt Road.” The man points in the direction he ran from.
Honeycutt Road?
“Your property must sit adjacent to mine,” I murmur, trying to understand if I’m indeed a trespasser. But then I decide it’s ridiculous to get worked up about it. “Listen… my name is Tilden Marshall. My friends call me Tillie. It appears we’re neighbors.”