Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“Focus,” Nanny says, snapping her fingers in my general direction while Curly Cookie goes bounding through the yard, causing as much general chaos as he does when he’s in the house. He seems to live for it, but I guess that’s just how dogs are until they turn five, and then all the piss seems to settle right out of them. I think it happens around age forty for humans, but maybe not since that seems more like mid-life crisis territory. “Fuck-us.”
That’s more what it sounds like when Nanny snaps at me. Fuck. Us. God, she’s so right about that.
“What would you like me to fuck-us on first?” I pronounce the word the way she does, which makes her scowl, but she can’t hide the twinkling delight in her hazel eyes. For our tackling of the backyard, she’s donned purple spandex leggings with neon green ankle warmers, a denim overall that’s actually a skirt with little cat heads all over them, and a vibrant blue bobbed wig, which she keeps on with a huge floppy brimmed hat.
“How about the flower gardens? Err, no. Let’s continue with the patio. And work on getting this deck taken down. If we can get this crap up, then we have a good chance of getting it replaced.”
By we, she means me because there’s no way I’m going to let my grandmother do that kind of heavy lifting. She’d probably give herself a hernia. Hell, I’ll probably give myself a hernia. I’m out here after mowing the nasty grass and cleaning it all out so we can see what we’re working with. I’ve got my regular work armor on—faded jeans, a T-shirt, and a set of work gloves.
“I think taking apart the deck will involve tools. Like a hammer. Or a sledgehammer. Or a bulldozer. We don’t have any of those. I’ll have to go out and buy them.”
“No, you don’t! I have a garage full. All your grandpa’s old tools are in there. I didn’t touch anything after he died. There’s an ancient old tiller in there, too, for the flower beds, and there are some other freaky power tools that would probably help us demolish this old path and get up those patio blocks.”
“We can probably reuse the patio blocks. I could just relay them after I dig them back up and clean them. The deck is rotted through. It needs to go. As for the flower beds, that’s your area. I don’t know anything about flowers. I can see if I can get the tiller working, but it’s probably going to need a good day’s taking apart and cleaning.”
“Just spray gas on the carb. That should get ‘er fired up.”
“Gah, Nanny! If you want to explode yourself, that sounds like a great idea.”
“I’m always up for a little danger,” she says smugly while patting the ends of her bobbed wig. Curly Cookie streaks by carrying a weed that’s crusty and dead, yellowed from last year, and he’s no doubt raiding the trash pile that I have yet to bag up. How very in character. He drops the weed, which is probably like eight feet tall, and then proceeds to growl and pounce on it like it needs a good old-fashioned killing.
And that’s when I smell cinnamon and vanilla. I’m pretty sure the dog isn’t emitting the delicate, mouth-watering scent because all he emits are potent, eye-watering farts, so I whirl around to face the backyard’s entrance—a dilapidated gate in the sagging fence that is nearly impossible to pass through because a bush has morphed into a tree and is blocking most of it.
Remi’s small stature must have been how she managed to squeeze through the gate and past the tree-like bush easily enough. I watch her walk over with her hair up in a flirty, swinging ponytail and aviator sunglasses covering her eyes. She’s wearing tripped-up skinny jeans, rubber boots, and a purple T-shirt with a green cartoon T-Rex on the front. It doesn’t have any writing, but it’s showing off just enough of those dino arms that I imagine it could have said T-Flex or something adorable that would match Remi’s personality.
The minute I spot her, I feel like I’ve been coldcocked and knocked on my ass by Curly Cookie, which happens more often than you’d think—just try giving that beast his dinner. She lifts a hand in greeting, and a ring winks on her right index finger. It’s of two twisted golden leaves entwined together, and it matches the little leaf necklace she has on. The leaf part barely comes down to the neck of her shirt. I’m so flustered that my tongue turns into a bunch of knots I can’t untangle, and I have to do the age-old shove my hands in my pockets routine, so she doesn’t notice the semi-hard-on I’m sporting.