“Somebody say a prayer for that man’s temper.”
“And her temper.”
Hart steps out of the store, sipping a coffee as Jade climbs into the bed of her truck. The chair still rests on the hood of his truck, and she doesn’t flinch when he loses his cool; she keeps working on fitting both chairs in the back of the truck.
We can’t hear every word from inside the shop, but we catch enough. Sharp gestures, a finger jabbing toward the dent, arms flailing. He sets his coffee on the hood of the truck and says something about “reckless.” She fires back with something that includes “parked like a fool and boxing her in.”
There’s a threat to call the sheriff for parking illegally and damaging the car. He rips off his Stetson and runs his fingers through his hair, inspecting the mark. She uses the moment to slam the tailgate shut, and without missing a beat, she picks uphiscoffee.
“You’re welcome for the chairs not going through your windshield!” she shouts over her shoulder, before driving off.
Hart straightens slowly, staring after her. He looks down at the empty spot where his coffee was and kicks the truck’s tire.
The quilting guild sits in stunned silence for a second.
Then Wilma breaks it.
“Well. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.”
1: TOWN MEETINGS REQUIRE POPCORN
JADE
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IT’S FIVE MINUTES into Rocky Ridge Creek’s town meeting, and I already want to stab the next person who speaks with a pen.
“Someone has been stealing the cushions I hand-knit right out of Whiskering Heights.” Mrs. Graves, aka the local crazy cat lady, hits her cane off the floor.
And here we go.
Whiskering Heights, the local feline paradise tucked away in her backyard. The multi-level cat village is complete with a granite fountain, lush gardens, and plenty of catnip zones.
It’s heaven for every stray in town and run by a woman who I wouldn’t doubt crocheted herself a crown out of hairballs.
I can’t stab an old lady with a pen, can I?
“No, you can’t.”
Did I say that out loud?
Shit.
I swing my gaze to my youngest sister, Josie, who’s sitting beside me, munching on popcorn, as if we’re at the theater.
“Aren’t you saving that violence for Hart?” She gives me her wide-eyed, fake-innocent look, lashes fluttering, and a smirk fully engaged. “I heard he likes it kinky.”
Amazing how a single syllable can still hijack my whole mood. So emotionally evolved of me. One name and suddenly I’m neck-deep in whiplash. Years later, and still—my jaw clenches, my stomach flips, and the hate?
Still sharp.
Still raw.
Like no time has passed at all.
“No,” I huff, turning back to the meeting, but the thought of taking the man out has certainly crossed my mind more than once.
And I’m a lover of nature, animals, and all things peaceful. People, though, aren’t peaceful.
