Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 14671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 73(@200wpm)___ 59(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 14671 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 73(@200wpm)___ 59(@250wpm)___ 49(@300wpm)
No. That's not true. I'm close to the house my mother put in my name and then abandoned once the taxes got too high. As I pull into the driveway, the lawn is overgrown, and I promise myself to drag my mower out here to get it under control.
The notice from Mercy Municipal Property Enforcement, along with the current tax lien, is still stuck at the door. The rain can’t wash the paper off, so I shake my head as I unlock the door to let myself inside.
I do a once-over around the place to make sure all the windows are closed and turn the heat on. The fridge is empty but I know there's some canned food in the pantry and some meat in the deep freezer. I scrounge up enough food to throw something together, and while my meat defrosts, I hop in the shower.
The thunderstorm is soothing, but the incessant pounding on the back door as I step out of the shower is less than relaxing. Grumbling and angry at having to stop my after-shower routine, I throw a towel around my waist and rush downstairs to see who's banging on the door.
The minute I swing the door open, I'm ready to reach for my shotgun at the sight in front of me. Long hair is plastered to a very muddy face, and even worse, they're caked in dirt from head to toe.
"You've got to be kidding me," the mound of dirt moans with a familiar voice.
"Maddie?" I ask with a face I'm certain is contorting in disbelief.
"Yes, Chase."
"What the hell happened?" I step aside to let her into the kitchen. "How and why are you at my back door?"
Every step squishes with moisture as she drags herself into the kitchen. "Spare me the ‘I told you so’ bit."
That statement jars me, forcing me to ask, "What did I tell you?"
"To not drive to the Garrett farm. My car got stuck in a ditch on the way back into town. I didn't even make it back to your body shop before I spun out. So I trekked my way through—"
A sneeze interrupts her, and I don't want to talk right now.
"Tell me about it after you get out of this wet gear. The water is still hot, and you're welcome to a shower. I'm going to put some clothes on and get some food on the stove. You need to warm up," I tell her as I guide her up the stairs and into the bathroom. "Just leave the muddy stuff out here, and I'll get the washer going. There's a linen closet in there, and if you don't mind, some of my Ma's old stuff—it's clean but probably a tad bigger than what you wear."
"I'm exhausted and just thankful it was you here and not some weird zombie looking to eat my brains."
I laugh a little, but I can't stop my mind from wandering about what she tastes like.
"I was gonna throw some steaks in the cast iron, and I got some veg if you're hungry," I tell her while pulling linens out for her to bathe. I don't wait for her to respond before walking into my mother's old bedroom and grabbing some clean clothes from her dresser.
My voice is low as I watch Maddie peel out her soaked socks and shoes. I can't stand by and immediately move to turn on the water for the tub.
"I haven't taken a bath since I was seven. There's something disturbing about turning this beautiful clawfoot tub into a bowl of Maddie soup," she says with a smirk.
"Well, consider this your reintroduction. You should relax and warm up. Besides, a bath will do ya good. It will help heat your bones. If it makes you feel better, shower first, then bathe. It will be less human soup and more of a warm blanket."
Maddie doesn't fight me on this the same way she fought my warning to go back into town. Instead, the weariness of whatever she went through to get here settles around us in a calm silence. Exhaustion pours out of her at the same pace as water, and mud slides onto the bathroom floor.
Somehow, I see beyond her beauty, beyond my instant attraction, to simply help her get warm again. Every movement from Maddie's frame looks riddled with soreness and hesitation. I help pull her shirt over her head and her pants down to her ankles.
There are cuts and bruises from where she probably trudged through the brush to get to my back door. Suddenly, guilt impales me because if I trimmed the yard the last time I was here, she wouldn't have had to fight the landscape in search of help.
After setting everything out and leaving her in the bathroom, I make my way into my old bedroom to put on some clothes. The realization of helping each other while separated by the slimmest pieces of fabric isn't lost on me. But the fact remains, as much of a flake as my mother may be, she didn't raise me to be a pervert.