The moment I find the lightswitch, my eyes land on something.
I keep the light off and edge toward the window’s sill, placing a hand on the chilled glass as I narrow my gaze. “Is that?” I don’t finish my own question, because I don’t exactly know how. The same way I don’t exactly know what I’m looking at because… “that can’t be, can it?”
The furry figure shifts, and a white cotton tail nearly the size of my head pokes out from its rump, and I realize… “Oh my god.” I bring my hand to my mouth, trying to capture the gasp that comes from realizing that there is a huge bunny absolutely ravaging Jack’s carrot garden.
And when I say huge, I mean absolutely monstrous. His hind legs intimidate me, and my stomach clenches when the oversized bunny lifts his head, paws overflowing with carrots, dirt smeared through his white hair, around his mouth and up his arms. Around his neck, a gold chain, tangled in the fuzz. “Oh,” I breathe, relieved that this massive bunny is clearly Jack Hopper’s pet, since it’s wearing some sort of collar. I bring a hand to my chest, pushing out a relieved sigh. But the big bunny’s eyes suddenly lock to mine in the darkness, through the glass, and they immediately set me on edge.
This bunny has extremely human looking eyes. I narrow my own gaze but the oversized pet winks at me, then in two huge, swift hops, he disappears into the long brush along the side of the house.
That bunny… winked at me?
Bunnies can’t wink.
Can they?
I don’t know, actually, if they can. I mean, I’d think they can’t because winking is an expression, and that seems uniquelyhuman. Then again, dogs and cats can express things, like altering their barks and meows to let their humans know of specific needs. I close the curtains and flick the bedroom light on, sinking onto the edge of the bed.
I guess rabbits could wink. I mean, of course they can, I just saw this bunny wink. It’s not like I witnessed the only bunny in the free world who can wink. Of course not.
Combing my hair, my mind is stuck on the oversized pet. It’s cold tonight in Carrot Creek, not freezing but not that far from it. The handyman may be a damn hunk, but making your pet sleep outside when it’s this cold? That’s just inhumane. I get that the bunny is really big but who takes in a giant ragdoll without the ability to keep it housed? That’s just cruel.
After blow drying my hair and lotioning my body with my sister’s designer Cad Berreigh products, I slip into bed and tug my eye mask down.
But I can’t stop thinking about the poor big boy out there, cold and alone.
Sliding my feet into slippers, I tug my bathrobe on and trudge through the dark house, straight out the front door to Jack’s. Traipsing through his yard, I make my way to his front door. The porch light is off— “what a jerk,” I think aloud, because it’s one thing to leave your big bunny outside, and quite another to leave him in the dark. Knocking loudly three times, back to back, I stand there and wait.
Amidst readying my lecture in my head, the door opens and my jaw hits my toes when a barely covered Jack Hopper answers, sweat on his forehead, a towel slung around his waist, bunny slippers on his feet, gold chain around his neck. One that matches big bunny’s. Oh it’sdefinitelyhis pet. “Hi,” he greets, his voice much deeper than I expected, so deep that I feel it rumbling between my legs.
“Uh, hi,” I begin, already thrown off my axis from the hunky state of this man.
“Can I help you?” he asks, a rivulet of water curving between his pecs, making the delicious journey down his abs, sinking into his towel. I watched it go, the entire trip. “My eyes are up here,” he says, and I find a teasing smirk curving his mouth.
“I–look, I’m here because it’s inhumane to keep your pet bunny outside. It’s cold tonight, and he needs to be inside, even if it’s just a barn or garage.” He blinks at me, and even though it looks like he just got out of the shower, I noticed a smudge of earth along his forehead, and some of that same dirt smeared along his forearm. Still, I stay focused since I was already called out on completely, utterly, and shamelessly checking him out. “That’s animal cruelty, sir, and I demand that you bring him inside immediately!”
Jack’s lips twitch, and a smile curves them. “Will do,” he says, but I’m already stomping away in righteous indignation, my pulse hammering, an insane heat blooming between my legs.
I don’t peek out the window to see if the big bunny is outside or in, and instead, slip back into bed and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to forget Jack Hopper and his glistening abs.
I’m here for the Eggstravaganza, not a fling.
3
Things I’ve dipped in chocolate today: a clipboard, tongs, two pencils (don’t ask) and the tips of my fingers, far more times than I’d like to admit. And why? Because I can’t stop thinking about Jack Hopper and his broad, bare chest glistening in the moonlight.
I love animal lovers, and I’d have to think that Jack Hopper wouldn’t move to Carrot Creek, the most densely populatedbunny town in all of the US, if he didn’t like animals. Dipping the last candy egg into chocolate, tapping so the excess falls away, I think about the large bunny again.
Maybe he found the oversized bunny and took him in out of guilt, and maybe the bunny was outside because he wanted to be? Maybe Jack Hopper is so next-level pet owner that he lets his pets decide how they live best, offering them a pseudo-domestic pet experience where they can come in when they want, but live outside as much as they want, too.
I nod my head, pleased with the way I’ve reasoned him back into being a good guy as I place the last egg onto the waiting wax paper. I lower the slotted spoon to the counter, and tug off my gloves, surveying my work.
Yesterday I felt completely overwhelmed while I got things ready but today, the time seemed to fly. It wasn’t just because I had the handyman next door on my mind.
“There,” my sister groans, wrapping the last bunny in brightly colored tinfoil. “All of the chocolate bunnies for the kids’ Easter baskets are ready.”
Eyeing her work, I peer down at the checklist. “Did you make extra in case Mrs. Oliveri has her twins?” Carrot Creek is all about magic, and every kid who lives here or is visiting receives a huge stuffed basket on Easter morning. No matter what.
My sister nods. “Yep. And I made some extras in case Sam and Carl invite their nieces, too.” She huffs out a breath, stacking her booted foot onto the step stool. “Man, I always knew this thing was a lot of work but watching you do the most of it,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m exhausted.”
