Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
I grabbed a random book off one of the dark wood shelves that lined the room, flipped through it, and put it back immediately.
“You know what happens with sparks, Miss Sara? Forest fires,” I answered so she wouldn’t have to. “Exactly. And responsible adults don’t go around creating forest fires, nor letting forest fires be created around them. What Tucker and I have could be a slow burn, which is infinitely superior.”
Miss Sara uncrossed her ankles, then crossed them again in the other direction.
“I knew you’d agree!” I cried. “Slow burn, steady burn, right? That’s what they taught us in Camper Scouts, and I think it applies to basically all of…of everything… in the world. So much better than constantly putting your foot in your mouth and acting like a jerk, or misinterpreting the things he says and does, and feeling like you’re on a thrilling roller coaster but knowing in your heart of hearts that the track ends somewhere around the bend.”
I humphed, and Elvis thumped his tail in a commiserating sort of way.
“I’m gonna tell Diesel, if he wants to keep this pretense going, there’ll be no pet names or touching or… or… or looking at me with those eyes.” I nodded firmly.
“Sounds logical,” Miss Sara agreed. “No looking. What could go wrong?”
“And furthermore—” I broke off as my phone chimed with an incoming text, and I extracted it from my pocket.
It was a picture of Marigold sound asleep in her temporary crib, all sleep flushed and dark-curled, dressed in the footie butterfly pajamas I’d bought her, with her chicken pacifier clutched in her hand. My heart skipped and my brain fizzed as I read the text that came next.
DIESEL: She’s been good as gold, just like you said, Baby Whisperer. Hope your plans went okay. Sweet dreams. - D.
Well, fuck.
“Whatcha got there?” Miss Sara asked.
I handed over the phone without a word, and she grinned as she handed it back.
“Maybe you can start the not looking tomorrow,” she suggested, and I sighed.
There was not a darn thing wrong with Tucker Wright. Except, annoyingly, that he wasn’t Diesel Church.
6
Diesel
I was feeding the chickens, trying not to think about the feel of Parrish’s smooth face under my fingers or the sight of his sweet ass poking up from the kitchen floor, when Marigold giggled at something and almost lurched out of my arms.
I scrambled to keep a hold of her and settle her back on one hip. “Scared me, girl,” I muttered. “Not sure I know what to do if you go headfirst into the dirt. Maybe I should try that sling thing Uncle Parrish got you.”
I could have sworn she smiled when she heard me say Parrish’s name, but then again, it could have been a reaction to my own smile. Whenever I thought about the man, I couldn’t help but feel happier, and not just because he’d agreed to help me get custody. All the time that we were spending together to get to know each other in preparation for next week’s home visit, all the things I’d learned about him made me like him that much more. It was hard not to like a man who muttered to himself constantly, clearly adored his elderly uncle, and who’d talk to me for hours on end about politics, or chickens, or Marvel movies, like he really valued my opinions on the subjects.
But that was also why I’d tried not to push him too hard by being overly flirtatious. He was doing enough for me, and I didn’t want to make him feel awkward by ogling his ass or going overboard with pet names, even if it felt weirdly natural.
Marigold gurgled happily at the chickens surrounding us, so I introduced her. “This here zebra-looking one is a Plymouth Rock variety named Helga. She was named Helen until the great pecking incident of 2018, but we try not to talk about that time. Now this one…” I pointed to the maroon lady at my feet who was trying to nudge her way into my pockets. “This one is a Rhode Island Red. Her name is Samantha, but everyone calls her Nosy. I think you can imagine why. And this sweet girl,” I said, reaching down to run a finger down the long neck of one of my favorite chickens, “is Henry, but only because I got a little confused early on, and by the time I figured it out, she was just… Henry. I tried shortening it to Hen, but that was a bit too on the nose.”
I loved watching Marigold chatter happily to the chickens. These ladies were like pets to me, and seeing how happy they made my girl was like the best thing ever. One of the roosters strutted over to see what was going on.
“And that’s Lloyd. Don’t pay much attention to him. He’s a grouch. Thinks he owns the place. But that other rooster over there”—I pointed to my favorite of the two roosters—“is much nicer even though he’s noisy as all heck. We call him Uncle. Again, it was a little bit of confusion on my part because of the type of rooster he is, but we don’t need to get into that. Aren’t his toe feathers pretty?”