“He’s going to catch you stalking him,” Birdie says as she pours a cup of coffee.
Immediately, I let the white curtain fall back into place and fire back, “I’m not stalking him.”
She raises one eyebrow at me and smirks as she fills another cup. “Um, have you forgotten who you’re talking to here? I can always tell when you’re lying. Your nose twitch gives you away every time.”
I stop midtwitch and huff as I walk over and pick up the cup she’s set out for me and throw a scoop of sugar in with a dash of French vanilla creamer. “I’m not stalking him, exactly. It’s more like a nagging curiosity about him that just won’t go away. He’s not from around here, and I can’t figure out why a guy that looks like him would ever want to move into that run-down place next door.”
Birdie shakes her head as she leans against the counter. “You saying this place isn’t good enough for him? It’s good enough for us, why not him?”
I swallow a sip of the piping-hot liquid from my cup. “Did you see the bike he rode in on? And how about those clothes? I’ve seen flannel shirts and detailed stitched jeans like the ones he wears—they aren’t cheap. It seems like he can afford more than a four-hundred-dollar-a-month trailer in the middle of nowhere.”
She sighs. “You don’t know him, Iris. He could be a total creeper running from the law or something. Just because he’s hot doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a fucked-up past. If you’re smart, you’d give him the privacy he’s obviously after. Getting mixed up with a guy like him is bad news.”
“You’re probably right, but I can’t help being curious,” I admit.
Birdie stares at me over her coffee cup. “That curiosity might lead you to trouble. You need to nip that shit in the butt.”
I laugh. “You mean bud.”
She waves me off dismissively. “Bud—butt. You know what I meant.”
A short time later, Birdie heads out for work. When I walk her to the door, I notice my reclusive next-door neighbor still outside, waxing his bike. I lean against the door frame and wave good-bye as my best friend hops in her car and pulls away while honking the horn.
The commotion catches Ace’s attention and he glances back to where I’m standing. When his gaze locks with mine, my breath actually catches, and I wonder if he and I should start over since we aren’t exactly on neighborly terms.
I lift my hand in greeting, but quickly jerk it down when his expression turns into a blatant scowl pointed in my direction.
I huff, completely put off by his utter rudeness, and slam the door.
What’s his freaking problem?
I’ve never in my life had someone be such an ass to me.
The angry roar of his motorcycle coming to life rumbles the thin walls of my trailer as he mashes the gas and heads down the road.
Maybe Birdie is right. Ace Johnson could very well be hiding something, and I think it’s my duty as the new owner of Willow Acres to find out just what that could be, whether he likes me or not. Looks like I’m going to have to kill him with kindness. That’s the way Gran always taught me to treat people who were mean to me. Let’s hope it works on Ace.
All afternoon I wait on Ace’s return so I can march over and fire some questions off at him, but as the time passes I find myself absolutely out of my mind with boredom with no Internet or cable service here. New York has certainly spoiled me with its conveniences.
As I sit on the small wooden porch outside my front door, I notice how unruly the grass has become around the property. Our lawn service quit two weeks ago when I explained that I didn’t have enough money to pay them. They didn’t trust that I would be good for it after the first of the month when all of the rents start coming in. It didn’t matter to them that Gran had just passed away and that I’m still struggling to figure things out, all that mattered to them was that they get paid, which I understand. It just sucks for me, making this overgrown lawn one more thing I have to deal with.
I push myself up and walk through the yard, the grass tickling my ankles from its height as I make my way to the shed at the back of the trailer. Inside I find an old push mower that Gran bought when I was just a kid. She quit using it herself a few years back when she hit her midfifties, saying she was too old to push the damn thing around and upping the lot rent to hire the lawn service.
I drag the mower out onto the grass and try to remember exactly how to start this thing. I clutch the lever attached to the handle and grab the pulley and yank with all my might, yet nothing happens. I know this is how to start it. I used to mow all this grass as a teenager, helping Gran out around the place, so I’m not sure what the problem is here. After doing the same thing over and over about ten times, I shove my hands on my hips and curse at the stupid machine, fighting back the urge to kick it.
The sound of an approaching motorcycle causes me to roll my eyes.
Great. He would come back just when I decide to find something to keep me busy, getting grease and dirt all over my hands in the process. My interrogation of him will have to wait until some other time now.
I do my best to ignore the fact that Ace has returned and refocus on starting the lawn mower. I yank one more time, and when nothing happens, I curse loudly, out of pure frustration, “Fucking piece of shit!”
“Problems?”
I turn to see Ace standing before me with his arms crossed over his broad chest, looking more godlike than ever, staring at me expectantly with those brown eyes of his.