Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 382(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
“Cubs? Oh no! Oh crap!” I start flapping my hands, doing all sorts of weird things with them, but I force myself to calm down. “You’re right. I’ll get my phone. We’ll find someone ASAP. I’ll pay extra for the short notice. If there are cubs, that would be terrible, and the parents are probably frantic because they probably can’t get back in.”
“I can call…”
“No! You need to sit down on the couch and rest while I get you an ice pack. If you don’t have a concussion, you’re probably lucky. Oh my god, do you have a concussion? Should I take you to the emergency room?” It’s really not funny in a very-not-funny way how we were just having the most wonderful time together, about to do…um…things, and now we’re talking about ice packs and concussions and hospitals.
At least it wasn’t a sex-related injury.
I would never be able to live that down.
He does his best to smile at me as he gets to his feet. He doesn’t look shaky or woozy, thank goodness. “I’m good.” He even smiles, but when he lets his hand drop, there’s a big red welt on the side of his face, right by his ear.
Holy guacamole, I maimed the world’s most beautiful man. Not exactly what I wanted to go down in history for.
“Well, at least he didn’t latch onto my pants,” he jokes, making an effort to soothe and reassure me as he sinks down on the couch. “It would have been a real tragedy if you had broomed my package. It would have sucked even more if the raccoon bit me anywhere, but especially there. How would one explain to a doctor that one needs a rabies shot and maybe a tetanus shot because a raccoon bit one’s bangers and mash.”
I’m about to ask what the heck that means, but then it hits me. Why are there so many words for male bits? Right. Because testicles sound so anatomical. Still, that just sounds wrong.
“Bangers and mash? Oh my god. I actually like bangers and mash. Don’t ruin it for life.”
“Sorry.” Cue major throat clearing. “I was trying to be polite.”
I want to say he was anything but polite or shy in the kitchen earlier, but I guess that was in the heat of the moment before the whole raccoon buzzkill happened. Time and a place, folks. Time and a place. Outside of the bedroom and, hmmm, kitchen, Atlas has probably been trained as a perfect gentleman by his mom or granny. I can see his granny handing out a hiding for talking filthy in front of a lady. She’s tough and spry enough to do it and enjoy it.
What about all the euphemisms for lady bits? Right, I guess we went over that in the kitchen earlier.
My cheeks tingle painfully, and I’m aware that I’m probably scarlet. I rush to the kitchen to find my phone, and it only takes me a few seconds to put a call through to a wildlife rehabber in the area. A very kind woman answers on the first ring, and after a few minutes, she promises to send someone out. I had planned on calling an exterminator next since I’m sure there are many good ones who actually care about wildlife, but I’m happy I found someone who will for sure either reunite those cubs with their parents somehow or take them and help them until they can be released.
I just hope there aren’t any cubs up there. I didn’t even think about that, and I’ll feel awful if there are, and my coming here to this house and fixing it up ruined their lives.
I sit down on the couch beside Atlas to wait.
He’s pretty quiet and subdued now, and I don’t know what to say. The silence is kind of awkward, but maybe he needs it because his head is aching after I beaned him a good one, so I don’t try and make small talk.
Forty-five minutes later, a guy dressed in a khaki uniform and hiking boots shows up at my door with a ladder in hand. Twenty minutes after that, after a thorough search of the house’s rafters, he assures me there isn’t anything up there. I offer to pay him for his time, but he kindly tells me a donation to the wildlife rescue will be better served, so I make a mental note to go on their website and find the donation button first thing.
After I see him out, I turn to find Atlas behind me. He’s so close that I can nearly feel his body heat, but not quite close enough. I don’t know if he’ll ever be close enough after the whole wildlife—I’m not sure if I mean the raccoon or me since I probably did more damage—incident.
I already know what he’s going to say. That he needs to go, and he’s probably, as in never, going to come back. That he found out he’s made the most monumental mistake, and outdoor backyard picnics, fixer-uppers, and I weren’t for him.