Page 17 of The Christmas Mittens
She huffed. Okay, so ithadbeen a fantasy. “Just because it’s fiction doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
I snorted. “Gilda, it really kind of does.”
I got the huff of teen annoyance. “Whatever. The point was that only good people own dogs.”
While that was a charming ideal, I could rattle off a list of many people who owned dogs that were not good in the least. But I didn’t feel like bickering with her on a Sunday.
“Okay, sure, good people own dogs, and all dogs are assured a place in heaven.”
“All animals as they’re all beautiful, innocent souls.”
“Yes, all animals. And Anders seems to be a nice man who dotes on Della.”
“Right. So if you wanted to date him, I’d be fine with that. Just saying.”
“Thank you. Does that permission to date apply to all people who grab my fancy or just those who are charmingly foreign and own little dogs?”
“Dogs are a must.”
“Noted. Anything else we need to add to my dating profile acceptance list?” I asked, enjoying the heck out of this talk, even though it was all nonsense. Nothing other than a spark of hot lust existed between Anders and me. Dating was not even on my radar.
“Rich, polite, and they have to bow when they shake my hand. Oh! And they have to have a super cool van with solar panels.”
That narrowed down the possibilities. “Do they also have to have brown curly hair, brown eyes, and totes filled with beads for goose eggs?” She giggled and nodded. “Well, guess if I ever do decide to date, it had better be Anders or that fantasy prince of yours.”
“Why not both?” she asked with a casual shrug before her cell buzzed. Just like that, her thumbs were flying and dear old dad was forgotten like last week’s hot meme.
Why not both? As much as I loved her optimism, I highly doubted there was a chance in hell of mixing Anders with a fae princeling. It sure was a nice imagining though…
Chapter Eight
Monday, December 14
“Wow.”
I’d said it four times before, but it needed to be said again. Kirby Johnson just nodded. I lifted the abused pole saw to examine what remained of the plastic gas tank yet again.
“Porcupine?” I hazarded and got a curt nod from a redhead.
“Yep, bastards,” Kirby huffed in aggravation. “Damn thing chewed right through the side of my barn and then proceeded to destroy the gas tank on my pole saw. ’Course, when I needed the damn saw to trim a few broken limbs on a soft pine in the front, I opened the door to my barn and there sits the porky. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. I shouted to Lana to keep the dogs in, but before I could even move to find a broom or something, it took off through the two-foot hole it had chewed in my damn barn. Then, to add insult to injury, it left a huge pile of porcupine shit for me to clean up. Miserable things. They’re in season now, according to what Lana looked up on the Game Commission website, but I hate to shoot the fucker. Then again, I also hate having to replace the damaged wall of my barn and the gas tank on my pole saw.”
“You could call the Game Commission and have them live-trap it, take it far away, and release it into the wilds. I know they cause damage but to chew on a gas tank? Damn, that’s dedication.”
“I guess. Couldn’t have tasted good.”
I could only shake my head. Porcupines are rodents, and like all rodents, they need to chew to wear down their continuously growing teeth. Plus, they love salt, which can be found in glues used in plywood, paint, and even human sweat found on tool handles. I had one chew through my lawnmower tires a few years back.
That was better than them chewing through my brake lines, which was also known to happen.
“I’ll get online and order something for you. Might be a week or two.” I glanced up from the ruined gas tank to Kirby. I’d never seen a person with as many freckles as Kirby had on his face, or with hair so naturally red. All three of his daughters were gingers as well. His wife, an upbeat blonde named Lana, joked that red genes were much stronger than her pale blonde ones.
“No rush. I’ll just use the chainsaw to clean up any broke limbs. Personally, the jaggy points don’t bother me none up on the tree, but you know how my wife is.” I nodded. Lana Johnson liked her yard to look like something fromHome & Gardensmagazine. Despite the fact that Kirby raised feeder hogs so no amount of landscaping on their farm was going to erase the fact that the place smelled like pigs. But bless her heart, as they say down south, she did her best. “Let me know when you get it done, and I’ll run out and pick it up. While I’m here, best let me grab some bar oil and a new chain for my Jonsered. Nicked a rock the last time I run it, so I’d better get a new one on it. Oh, and some files.”
I rang Kirby out about twenty minutes later—he had to tell me about the new boar he bought that had taken a shine toLana but didn’t like Kirby—and was carrying his pole saw back into the shop when the bells over the door called out. Glancing over my shoulder, I spied Anders slipping in, a small smile that grew into a lovely grin when he saw me halfway through the curtain. His curls were flattened from his bike helmet, but he still looked incredible. Cheeks bright red from his bike ride, which had to be a frigid trip given it had cleared off last night and the temperature had dropped into the single digits. He’d dressed for the ride though, my greedy eyes noted. Today, he was in a tight-fitting cycling jacket with a matching neck warmer and thermal gloves, sinfully tight cycling pants with silver zippers, and sunglasses. On his feet, he wore cycling shoes that fit over his ankles. It seemed he had opted for full cyclist gear, which was no hardship on me at all. The slim fit of his clothes showed off his lithe form to perfection. My dick was quite interested. There was no Della to be seen, which was wise as the poor dog would have frozen, but he did carry a shoebox.
“Morning,” I called. “Let me put this on the shelf, and I’ll be right with you. Help yourself to some coffee there in the corner. It’s fresh.”
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” He carried his helmet to the coffee pot as I hurried into the shop to place Kirby’s saw on a shelf of jobs waiting for parts to arrive. Some things I could get from the auto parts, but some things had to be shipped from the manufacturer or an online parts depot in New York State. I’d shop around for the best price for Kirby, as I always did, and order the cheapest I could find. Farmers weren’t swimming in cash. Hell, no one in Grouse Falls was rolling in dough. Other than the suave man in the Prada coat. Although today, he had foregone his classic knee-length coat for that blue-and-black thermal outfit that had made me choke on my tongue. I had no idea how expensive his cycling outfit was, but I had to assume it was not the knockoff cheap stuff. Would someone witha Mercedes custom-made solar-powered van wear subpar biking gear? Doubtful. His bike probably costs as much as my car did eight years ago. So many mysteries still clung to the man…
