“Hey, old man!” she calls out.
I can’t help the harsh laugh that leaves my mouth.Old man. Who would’ve known thirty-two is considered old these days? I let the laughter overtake me as I give her a dismissive wave, leaving the store and not looking back.
My orange truck is at the end of the parking lot, and to my dismay, Animal Rights is hightailing it behind me. I hear the stomp of her feet against the gravel driveway and the chirp of chickens—not just the one, but an entire flock.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” she yells, closing the distance as I make it to my truck.
“Sorry, lady. I ain’t got time for your nonsense.” I wave over my shoulder then open my driver door. Before I can escape, a small hand with multi-colored fingernails shoves the door shut. I let out a sigh as she keeps it planted against my window. And then, she has the audacity to start tapping her finger at me. Pink, yellow, and blue drum against the glass impatiently. The nerve of this woman.
I follow the line of her arm, noting smooth, dark-olive skin. Like those arms you see in commercials, convincing you to buy some weird lotion. There’s a slender definition in her bicep and shoulder, making it the most distracting arm I’ve ever laid my eyes on. My gaze travels up the smoothness of her arm, finally meeting her face, and I’m greeted by a set of brown eyes.
And they’repissed.
“Ma’am, could you please remove your hand from my vehicle?” I ask as frustration pulses down my temples. Her hand flexes as she pushes harder onto my window. As I tower over her small frame, I have no doubt I could throw her over my shoulder in one swift motion, so removing her tiny hand shouldn’t be a problem.
“Not until you apologize.”
“Apologize for what?” I snap my head back at her. “For rescuing your chicken from my boot?” At her feet is a large wire crate with at least ten baby chicks in it, all chirping up at me.
“No.” She removes her hand and crosses her arms. “For eating animals.”
I cock my head back and bark out a laugh. The afternoon sun pierces my vision for a moment before creating a glowing halo around this woman, illuminating her flawless skin like it thrives in sunlight—again, distracting.
“I’m not going to apologize for the naturally created food chain. You gotta take that up with God.” She gapes at my words, probably offended, but I don’t care. I open my door again and try to climb in. “Have a nice day.”
The lady grips my door,again,drawing a low growl out of my throat. This woman is maddening.
“Fine.” She huffs. “You could at least apologize for trying to kidnap Nugget.”
“Nugget?”
She nods, pride pinking her cheeks as she smiles down at the crate. “Cute, isn’t it?”
The chicks chirp as if they are agreeing with this woman. Nugget sits front and center, eyeing me with her permanent scowl and brown mohawk. Hard to miss, and yes, kind of cute. The corner of my mouth twitches up as they all chirp up at me.
“Sure, whatever. Take care now.” I attempt to close my door.
“Could you at least give a stranded woman and her animals a ride?” She leans her arm on the inside of my door, staring at me expectantly. Does this woman not have any sense? What if I’m a serial killer? “It’s the least you could do since you were trying to steal my chicken.” The balls on this woman. Crossing her arms again, she waits.
Now I’m gaping at her. No, gawking, as I take her in.
Dark-brown hair, wild and curly, is tied on top of her head with a bright-yellow scarf. Strawberry-pink cheeks with plump lips to match sit beneath dark, doe-like eyes. It’s like they’re filled with raspberry chocolate, a swirl of browns and reds looking back at you. Someone might even think there’s a sweet, intense passion about them, but based on the last few minutes of dealing with her, that passion is almost loony. Her small frame is swallowed by ratty blue coveralls, the top half unbuttoned and tied around her waist. A white tank top covered in dirt—and who knows what else—hugs her slim torso.
“I won’t bite,” she jokes, hoisting the crate of chickens into the bed of my truck. I haven’t even said yes yet.
I watch as she whispers something to the chickens then skips to the passenger side of my truck and climbs in. Again, please let the record show, I havenottold this mystery woman I will give her a ride.What if she’s a serial killer?
“We’re losing daylight, Grandpa.” Patting a hand on the dash then adjusting the back of the seat, she makes herself comfortable, as if riding in a truck with a complete stranger is nothing to her. She even goes as far as plopping her feet on my dashboard.
My neck and jaw tighten watching her. It could be my imagination, but I swear I hear her force a sigh,rushingme. I drop my head and rub the back of my neck before accepting that I have no control over this situation, and I climb into my commandeered vehicle.
“Are you going to murder me?” I hesitate to start the truck and watch her carefully.
“Are you going to murderme?” She raises an eyebrow at me. Something about that look makes my stomach dip.Weird.
“Alright,” I huff, “where to, ma’am?” I shove the lump of anxiety forming in the back of my throat deep down and try to ignore the fact that I am at the mercy of a fearless woman witha very specific agenda. Having a plan is the only thing I need to function these days. Knowing the basic details of where I’m going and what I’m doing is a necessity. Yet, somehow, I have succumbed to the requests of my polar opposite. In what world have I ever let this happen?
“First of all, do I really look like a ma’am to you? Second, 71st and Hilltop, please,” she says without looking at me, cranking the window down. Now I have to turn the air conditioner off. Summer heat is thick and oppressive outside, and this strange woman is just wasting my cold air.
