Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Hi Mr. Jonsson,” she greets once more. “Len wasn’t home, but I thought I’d take the initiative and water his blooms. The begonias are definitely wilting, and I know he’d appreciate it. There’s no sense in letting flowers die while I’m right here, with my watering can at the ready.”
I stare at the ripe teenager. Is this woman for real? Nonetheless, I nod, my voice gruff.
“Do what you think is best.”
I fully expect her to mind her own business, turning to the work of watering flowers or whatever the fuck is going on. But instead, Chloe shakes her head, those blonde curls bouncing.
“Actually, my watering can is empty and I was wondering if I could refill it in your sink?”
I blink.
“Isn’t there an outdoor hose that you could use? Surely you don’t need indoor tap water.”
Chloe merely lets out a merry laugh, her face breaking into a beautiful smile. It’s like seeing a shaft of sunlight strike out between the clouds, and immediately, I’m entranced.
“There is a hose,” she concedes. “But it’s been baking in the sun all day, and the water’s hot. It’s too hot for the plants, so I need to access cold water that’s available only from the pipes in the trailers. Now, may I?” she asks, holding up her watering pot again.
I blink. This girl has done me in, and I nod, moving away to let her enter.
“Sure,” I grunt. “Ignore the mess.”
Chloe skips up the couple of steps to my trailer and steps into the darkened interior. To be honest, Barcalounger aside, I’ve taken pains with my living quarters so that it’s nice. Or as nice can be, seeing that it’s only about four hundred square feet. There’s fake wood paneling on the walls, sure, but I’ve hung up a couple of abstract prints in tonal browns and grays as decoration. The kitchen is spic and span, and I had custom built-ins installed so that my pots and pans are displayed attractively in glass-paned cupboards. Not only that, but there’s a small bud vase on the flip-top table, adding a dash of color with its yellow bloom.
Chloe takes everything in with a sweep of her eyes, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she skips over to the kitchen sink and begins filling her tin can with water.
“So I’m Chloe,” she says conversationally while looking at me over one slim shoulder. “I don’t know if we’ve ever been formally introduced before.”
I chuckle.
“I don’t know that there’s anything formal that goes on at St. George Crossing,” I growl in a wry tone. “Other than the name, I guess.”
“I know,” she giggles. “How did they even get such a fancy name? I mean, we’re a trailer park for crying out loud. St. George Crossing is way too stuffy for this place because it sounds like we should be living in the English countryside. Or a church. Or an abbey.”
I shake my head.
“I heard it’s a trick that developers do. They pick out uptight British names in order to increase property values. After all, who really wants to live somewhere called Bombay Way or Beijing Lane? Or even Villa Spaghetti? Those choices sound bizarre, whereas British names feel normal.”
Chloe laughs while turning off the spigot. Her can’s filled to the brim, but she doesn’t make any attempt to leave.
“Yeah, I see your point. There are so many British-sounding names in the United States. I guess it’s just our colonial past.”
I grin.
“Or the fact that Americans are all Anglophiles, even if we don’t know it.”
“Oh, I’m definitely an Anglophile,” Chloe agrees. “I love everything British, including tea and scones, Peaky Blinders, the Royal Family, and Ascot.”
I nod, impressed.
“You follow horse-racing?”
She nods, her blonde curls bobbing.
“I’m not a die-hard, but I watch races on my phone sometimes. I love seeing the horses because they’re gorgeous animals. They flow like the wind when they gallop, and it’s incredible that an animal that’s two thousand pounds can be held up by four spindly legs.”
I nod.
“That’s part of the problem, actually. You know a couple racehorses have had to be euthanized at the track recently, right? It’s often because they break a leg, and for a horse, that’s a death sentence. They get something called laminitis and have to be put down.”
Chloe nods sorrowfully, wringing her hands.
“Yeah, I heard,” she murmurs. “I hate how racehorses are so fragile and vulnerable. I hate how they have to run for their lives sometimes, too.”
I nod.
“Yeah, it’s the glue factory in Mexico for a segment of horses that don’t win. It’s tragic.”
We’re both silent for a moment, absorbing the implication of our words. Depressing subject matter aside, I’m impressed with Chloe because I wasn’t sure what to expect. She’s a bodacious young woman, and I guess based on her appearance, I was expecting her to be an airhead. I suppose it was the blonde hair, big tits, and revealing clothes. I wasn’t sure she’d have more than a bag of rocks for brains.