I’m about to thank him for the compliment when he opens his mouth and throws another log on the fire.
“I simply don’t thinkanyonecan make a sustainable career out of being a travel influencer.”
And there it is. The last freaking straw.
“Watch me.”
Chapter Four
Miles
Watch me.I spent the entire night replaying Lucy’s words—and the challenge behind them—as I tossed and turned. Now I’m sleep deprived and running entirely on adrenaline as I once again stand in front of her grandmother’s house, armed with a ludicrous plan.
The taillights of my Uber glow softly as the car retreats down the drive, and when it disappears, the cold, hard reality of my half-baked plan hits me.
No turning back now.
It’s nearly seven a.m., and the temperature is already climbing. From the looks of it, I’m early. Lucy’s cherry-red Jeep is still in the drive, the silver trailer behind it glinting in the early-morning sun. The RV is tiny, and it’s clearly seen better days, but I’m not about to let that deter me.
Not after Lucy shot down my offer to double her salary. I thought for sure the generous increase would be enough to change her mind. It never occurred to me she’d say no.
After all, who doesn’t want a bigger paycheck?
Apparently Lucy.
A rooster crows off to my left, and I nearly drop the coffee carrier I’m holding.
As if on cue, a pair of chickens—fucking chickens—approach, aggressively pecking the ground around my feet.
“Sorry, ladies.” I step away to protect my toes. “I didn’t bring anything for you.”
How is it possible that Lucy—who’s the most buttoned-up, organized person I know—lives in a place like this? It’s total chaos.
Which is what my life will be if I don’t get her back on the payroll.
An ear-piercing squawk splits the air, and I curse as something sharp digs into my ankle.
The fuck?
I glance down to find one of the hens pecking at my shoe. Not only have they regrouped, they’ve called in reinforcements. There are now six birds surrounding me, all clucking and flapping their wings in obvious agitation.
“Shoo!” I order, waving my free hand at them. “I don’t speak chicken, and I don’t have any…whatever it is you eat.”
My words have little impact.
If anything, they seem to rile the birds up more.
They squawk and cluck and continue pecking at my ankles, carrying on like they’ve found a fox in the henhouse. Speaking of which, shouldn’t they be in a pen or something?
Bach-bach-bigach!
I look up just in time to see a rooster charging me, wings flapping, beak raised. He issues another warning cry just before leaping into the air. I scramble back, sending the hens scattering.
At my retreat, the angry bird backs off, but I don’t dare take my eyes off it.
The little clucker looks like he’s out for blood.
Mine.
