Page 14 of Sunshine
Now I do smile, but sardonically. “Yes, indeed.” I press the smile from my mouth. “Apparently I missed tea and um, Jake must be starving.”
“Right then.” He takes a candy in a gold wrapper out of his pocket, unwraps it, and pops it in his mouth. Then he pulls out another, offering it to me.
I roll my eyes and sigh impatiently, so he bows slightly, and walks away with a mocking finger wave, but then stops at the occasional table by the front door.
“If you ever need a real rescue, Sunshine, I’m just down the road.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t. Us women are very capable of taking care of our own rescues these days. No men required.”
He only gives me a crooked half smile that makes me a little weak in the knees. I’m tempted to ask his name, but I stop myself. Even on an island, with him living nearbyI’ll likely never see him again. Mostly because I don’t plan to venture out unnecessarily. And making friends is pointless since I plan on getting out of here as soon as my divorce is settled.
I stand there unmoving, maybe because his chest, abs, thighs, and, ahem the bulge in those grey jogging pants, are spectacular and they’ve put me in some sort of trance.
“Toodles, Sunshine,” he says, turning to walk out, unintentionally giving me a view of his tight muscular ass.
I don’t move, even after he’s out the door, down the porch steps and jogging out of my driveway. I’m paralyzed staring, battling with needs and urges I haven’t felt since—well, a very long time, and don’t gain control of my body again until Jake cock-a-doodles the proverbial crap out of me.
“Goddammit, bird!”
He ruffles his feathers, indignantly, and looks at me with his beady little eye.
“What?” I ask, wondering how a rooster can manage to look so judgmental.
“Know this, Jake, I really do love a good roast chicken. You’re on thin ice, pal.”
Chapter Four
Tess
The next morning, I wake to the sound of crowing and it’s so loud it sounds as if it’s coming from the end of my bed. Which, as I sit up, I discover it is.
“Jesus!” Scrambling up to the headboard, I shout accusingly, “I locked you up!” It had taken a quick google search, but I was able to lure Jake out of the house to the chicken coop with some apple slices and lock him up with the hens last night. How he got back inside the house is beyond me.
Jake’s response is a cooing sound that I far prefer over his loud call of worship to the sun, but still makes me rather uneasy. And speaking of the sun… where the hell is it? It’s way too dark for it to be morning.
After confirming my suspicions by peeking through the lemon-yellow curtains beside the headboard, I point at the bird. “You blasted evil bird; the sun is barely up!” I snatch my hand back as Jake hops off the footboard and begins pecking at the colorful flowers embroidered on the white bedspread near my feet.I squeal loudly when his beak comes too close to my scrunched-up toes. He flaps his wings, landing on the floor where he gives me one of his signature indignant looks.
“Shoo!” I use the Afghan from the end of the bed to get the bird moving and far enough away that I can slide my feet into the safety of my slippers. Then I chase the blasted mother-clucker out of the room. He zig-zags down the hall like an expert quarterback, his head bobbing like some imaginary victory music is playing and it’s clearly his jam.
“Oh, Gran.” I groan as Jake scoots out through another “chicken” door in the room I used to occupy. It was partially obscured by a quilt ladder, so I hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Oh, and this door flap? It also has the damn chicken’s name hand painted above it. Jake, the friggin’ rooster, has not only one, but two of his very own bloody doors—that I know of.If I hadn’t spent so much time with Gran at the hospice before she died, I’d definitely think she’d been senile.
“Who keeps a pet chicken?” I gripe, trying to find something to block the entrance. Before I can, another bird pokes her head through. Rolling my eyes, I leave the room, shutting the door behind me. It’s too early to herd chickens without caffeine.
Ignoring the clucking from the back room, I fill the kettle with water and drop a tea bag into my mug. And I do mean mine. It saysTess Harlow, New York Times Bestselling Authoracross the side. Gran must have stolen it from my swag stash the last time she’d come to Toronto to visit.
I’m smiling at the thought of her drinking proudly from it when I hear footsteps coming up the back porch. I rise to see it’s a tall teenager carrying a bucket and a jug. For a moment—a quick one, I’m disappointed it isn’t my new neighbor.
Tess Harlow, we are not here to make friends, or even neighborly acquaintances. We are here to write our overdue book and wait for the divorce to be finalized.
“Good morning,” I say opening the door. “You must be Jay.”
The teenager nods. “Morning, Ms. Harlow, I was just about to drop this at your door.” He holds up the bucket filled witheggs, and a jug of milk. “You’re up early,” he says, handing me the goods.
“Too early,” I say on a groan, nodding to the group of hens pecking at the sparsely grassed area outside of Jake’s flap door. “Is this normal?”
“Ah, ‘fraid so.” He chuckles.“Your grandmother loved Jake. He’s the one?—”
I cut him off, holding my hand up. “Oh, I know which one he is. He was nice enough to serenade me from the footboard of the bed this morning.”
