Page 6 of Songbird
So, with Violet’s car key in one hand, my purse in the other, wearing a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding dress, and with my hopes pinned on a man I barely know, I run.
two
Finn
AprilinSonomaValleythis year has been wet, which means the ground in front of Mom and Dad’s old place is soft and muddy, and I’m taking advantage of it by digging up the old stone path. It’s got to be at least thirty years old, chipped and discolored, but it leads from the porch to the dock at the river, so it couldn’t come out until I had time to replace it with a new one.
And that’s all I’ve got these days. Time.
It’s hard work, the monotonous kind that empties my mind, and it takes hours. By the time I’ve dug up a couple hundred chunks of flagstone, I’m covered in sweat, my boots and T-shirt are caked with mud, and every muscle in my body burns like hell.
It feels good.
When I’ve tossed the last piece of stone into the back of my truck, I climb the porch steps and swipe up my bottle. I pour water down my throat, then tip back my head to splash the final drops over my face and hair. I shake away the moisture, and as the droplets fly, my old Lab lifts her head to watch with unimpressed eyes.
“Sorry, girl.” I give her head a rough pat, and a contented rumble sounds deep in her chest. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
She yawns and resettles herself on the porch swing, blocky head resting on her paws as she looks out lazily over the yard. After a moment, she snorts and looks up with those deep brown eyes, her brow wrinkled in accusation.
“I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it’ll come together.” I frown at the wide stretch of grass and churned-up muck as I lower myself onto the other end of the swing. “Eventually.”
Positioned toward the rear of my family’s hundred-acre ranch and vineyard, in the center of a clearing and surrounded by redwoods, the bungalow I call home is what renovation shows call a fixer-upper. I’ve been trying to fix it up for the better part of a year, but it’ll never be what it used to be. The way it was when I was a kid and my parents were still alive. But that’s okay. As soon as I realized I couldn’t turn back time, I decided to make the place better.
Making it better gives me purpose. And I’m the kind of man who needs a purpose.
I lay a hand on Dakota’s back and ruffle her coat before I stand. “Break’s over,” I announce just as the gentle hum of an expensive engine reaches my ears. Dakota raises her head, ears pricked and nose twitching, and when the gleam of a silver sedan comes into view, she launches from the swing with the grace of an overfed eight-year-old Labrador and parks herself at the top of the porch stairs.
I lean my elbows on the balustrade and watch the brand-new hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes roll up my gravel drive. I’ve got no idea who’s behind the wheel or what they want, but they’re obviously lost, so I settle in to catch the moment they figure that out and try to turn their shiny little car around.
I’m not an asshole. I just have a low threshold for bullshit and stupidity, and I’ve got a feeling that a rich city-slicker getting stuck in the mud is going to serve up plenty of both.
It doesn’t take long.
The driver doesn’t even pause when the tires move off the loose gravel and onto slick ground, and everything’s fine until the rear wheels hit the mud. The car instantly loses traction, but instead of stopping and trying to reverse onto solid footing, the driver floors it. The car lurches forward before it stops again, and a chuckle catches in the back of my throat as the engine roars, the wheels spin faster, and mud flies in all directions.
When the engine settles and the tires come to a stop in twin trenches of soggy dirt, I push myself off the banister with a sigh.
“Guess I should help, right?” I mutter as I step around Dakota. She whines a little in reply.
I jog in the direction of the car, but I’m less than halfway there when the engine revs again and the tires start to spin. I cringe as mud explodes in the air, shooting far enough to pelt me in the chest and head.
“Jesus Christ,” I grumble, turning my head as I wait for the hits to stop.
When they do, I squint at the dark car windows to get a look at the clown responsible. I can’t make out more than a shadow, so when the wheels stop spinning, I duck my head and move a little faster, hoping to get to the car before the driver steps on the gas again. I make it without taking another mud shower, but before I can rap my knuckles against the tinted glass, a woman pops up out of the open panoramic sunroof.
My heart hits my throat. Holy fuck. Rosalie Thorne.
I’m silent as she stares down at me, her soft blonde hair falling in perfect waves around her shoulders and the shade of her baby blue eyes as startling now as it ever was. I absently register tiny signals that she’s nervous—the twitch of a dark-lashed eyelidand the quick pass of her tongue over coral-painted rosebud lips—before her brows pull together and she crosses her arms underneath her breasts.
“Well?” she demands. “Are you going to help me out of here or not?”
“Are you—” I push my fingers into my hair, and when they catch on a clod of dirt, I shake it off. “Are you serious? What are you doing here?”
“Can we talk about it inside?”
“Inside myhouse?”
“Yes.”
