Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58108 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’d say at least that. Closer to eight. She went to the academy in Missoula for a little while.”
“College?” I asked.
“Not that I know of,” she replied, which meant no.
Mrs. L looked to the back door at the sound of footsteps on the porch. Ford came in, and he took in the three of us. “We’re talking about Megan Hager. She went to the police academy when she was nineteen?”
Ford looked my way. “I think she’s two years younger than I am. I was already a SEAL by the time she was nineteen. She lived here all her life except for that training.”
Mrs. L shook her head. “No, her father took her to Seattle for a few years. She didn’t graduate from Sparks High School–I’m on the graduation committee, so I’d remember, even one about ten years ago. She came back after the academy.”
Ford grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and took a bite. “Huh, I had it wrong then.”
“Her parents are here in Sparks?” I asked, even though I knew otherwise.
Mrs. L sighed. “Her mother’s long gone. Left when Megan was a girl. As for her father? That man… well, no. To answer your question, no. He’s not in Sparks.” She fiddled with the napkins and the cake holder. “Colin Hager was a man always out for something better. He liked those… those get rich quick schemes. Maybe that’s why her mother left, but what woman leaves her child? Some people I’ll never understand.”
From what I’ve heard about them, I didn’t like either of her parents. But Megan had been raised by her dad. The tone of Mrs. L’s voice said she wasn’t wild about the man, and I trusted her judgment. The way she’d said she was alone made me assume she didn’t like the guy either. Many kids hated their parents. That wasn’t anything new.
A timer dinged on the stove.
“What are you cooking now?” Ford asked, patting his stomach, even though he was mostly finished with the apple.
“Nothing,” she replied, turning the buzzer off. “That’s my reminder I need to leave. Esther Wilson’s daughter’s baby shower.”
“I’ll help you carry everything to the car.” Kennedy picked up the cake holder and held the screen door for her. She grabbed her cloth bag and keys and followed him. She glanced at me over her shoulder.
“You’re not getting a lemon square, Kennedy,” she called then turned to me. “You know, I can help with Megan.”
Ford chuckled and studied the wood floor.
“Do I look like I need help with the ladies?” I set my hand on my chest. I didn’t seem to have much trouble getting into Megan’s bed, but staying there was something else. She’d given me a few minutes to recover from the mind-blowing orgasm before she kicked me out.
Mrs. L’s shrewd eyes raked over me. “None of you struggle with the ladies. I said I can help with Megan. Do you want any woman, or do you want Megan?”
Wow. Okay. Consider me schooled. Her tone made it clear there was a distinction between the two. Sure, Megan was a woman, but Mrs. L wanted to make sure she was the woman.
“I want Megan,” I said. I wanted her any way I could get her. In that bulletproof vest or bare. Cursing my name or crying it out as she came.
Mrs. L nodded. “Good.”
She followed Kennedy to her car, leaving me with Ford.
“You better want the woman,” Ford advised. “Gram won’t like her being toyed with.”
I knew he was warning me of his grandmother’s potential wrath, but he was questioning my intentions. And my honor.
“She’s mine,” I said. I’d never been more sure. Ford nodded like he understood. There was nothing else that could make it clearer than those two words. I’d even use the help of a geriatric busybody to make it happen.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
MEGAN
“I want to hear all about your new man.” Holly waggled her eyebrows from behind the counter at the Seed ‘n Feed.
I looked left and right and hoped no one I knew in town was listening in. Who was I kidding? I knew everyone in town, and they were always listening. Fortunately, it was quieter than her usual rush time, closer to lunch than breakfast.
A small clump of ranchers were at their usual table in the corner, but they weren’t paying me any attention.
I leaned across the counter. “Hush.”
She grinned and held up a can of whipped cream. “Want this on top?”
“An iced mochaccino without whipped cream? I’ll check my books, but I think it’s illegal.”
She held the spray can against her chest. “Then spill.”
I frowned. “No tip for you,” I grumbled then shook my head with a laugh.
She grabbed my cup from the worn surface–it’d been the original grain counter back in the day–and angled the can over it to mound a pile of the deliciousness on top.