Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56672 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 227(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Ugh, a couple more hours, and then you can collapse into bed, Josie,” I tell my protesting body when I drag the bags off the floorboard of the back seat, hoping to bring everything in with one trip. An epic failure because my arms feel like noodles. I grab the remainder of the groceries and my carbonated water I’m addicted to. The limoncello flavor is making my mouth water thinking about it. I grab the last bag, which holds my bread. Smooshing it is not an option, and I for one do not want wonky-shaped bread. No one wants a crooked sandwich. I blow out another puff of air, get my shit together, and make the short walk from the driveway back along the sidewalk, watching so I don’t hit a big crack and tumble ass over elbows.
I’ve got one foot on the first step, am almost to the door, a few more steps, the need to off-load the food, make a sandwich, take a hot shower, and be one with my couch calling my name, when, “No, no, no,” I hear the crunch of a wooden board beneath my foot. My hand that was only holding bags drop, and I’m trying to use my hands as leverage in order not to fall flat on my face. It also has me doing this weird kind of dance with my feet. And when a ball like shape gets under my foot, my fate is sealed. I’m doomed. Not only am I going to have a busted porch step to fix, I’ll probably have something else broken—a foot, an elbow, a nose. I twist my body at the right time and land on my ass. My heart is literally beating out of its chest at escaping near death, and I look around, hoping no one was around to see my fall from grace.
“You alright there?” I hear from across the street. I study at the man, head tilting to the side as I try to figure out where the voice is coming from.
“Yep, I sure am.” I don’t offer anything else, too embarrassed to continue a conversation with my new neighbor. I’m too busy gathering my pride, composure, and adding another item to the growing must-do-right-away list of this fixer upper.
“See you around, then, melon girl, and welcome to the neighborhood.” The older gentleman walks into his house. I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to figure out why he’s calling me a melon girl. Surely, my shirt didn’t rip open, right? I look down. Nothing is out of place. I continue glancing around. There, in the crook of the now broken front porch step, is a watermelon, the culprit of me doing that awful dance with hands going out, feet skating out from under you style. Those stupid mini-watermelons I thought were so cute at the grocery store are no longer looking that way. They’ll be lucky if I don’t toss them in the trash. Like I’d ever waste any type of fruit. The melon will be spared, it seems. For now.
6
TRACE
“Motherfucker.” My phone rings yet again. I’m back home now. I thought about swinging by Cooper’s, grabbing a bite to eat, shoot the shit with him and his wife, then head home, but there was no way I’d be able to sit with my cock hard as a rock. No number of reciting invoices, purchase orders, or going over the pro football draft and who I’d pick was helping. Now, I’m in the kitchen, bottle of beer on the counter, steak, baked potato, and green beans at the ready. If I hadn’t thawed the steak earlier today, I’d be up shit creek, eating a bowl of cereal like I once did first starting out as a single parent, working too late, and having no idea what to cook in a pinch. It’s also why guilt is gnawing at my gut when I see the name displayed on my phone. It’s not entirely from checking on Josie either. Somewhere along the way, I fucked up with Wes. Today has been a good day, and damn if I’m not ready for it to go to shit. I let the phone ring. I’ll call him back later, tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. If it’s important, he’ll call again, shoot me a text, or on the rare occurrence stop by. Since the phone stops and doesn’t start up again, I’m in the clear.
The television is already cued up with the sports channel on and playing in the background. My boots and socks have long been discarded as well as my shirt, since I was in for the night, this time for the entirety. Plate in hand along with a fork and steak knife, I hit the couch, leaving my phone on the counter. Right now is not the time to deal with Wes. A real parent loves their kid unconditionally, even when my son asks an asinine question. He’s smart as a whip, like that saying ‘book smart,’ but man, does he lack some common sense at times. I place my plate on the coffee table and pull it toward me so I can eat while watching the college football stats are predicting to be this coming fall, keeping my eye on our state team in Tennessee. The last couple of the years, it hasn’t been their greatest. I hope they can celebrate a comeback season. I’m hunched over, about to cut into my steak, when a beep comes from my phone, notifying me I’ve got a text message. Usually, I’d ignore the dumb thing, sick of it going off during the day, hell, the week, and the damn month. I finish cutting into my food, wanting to forget about everything minus the sweetest morsel that is Josie Preston, a body made for sinning, and I’d be at the altar, down on my knees to beg for another taste.