Today's Reading
CHAPTER ONE
October 1 headlines:
MARINERS CONTINUE WILD RIDE INTO POSTSEASON PLAYOFFS
SEATTLE MANAGER SHAKES UP ROSTER, SHOCKS FANS
WIN BIG OR GO HOME: PARKER GOES HOME
"No comment."—Noah Parker, Pitcher for the Seattle Mariners
CHAPTER TWO
Gracie loved Mona with every beat of her heart, but the occasional moment arose when she wanted nothing more than to smack her beloved sister in the face with a Bavarian cream pie.
Possibly cherry.
Actually, any pie would do so long as it got Mona to just. Back. Off. "Would you stop hovering? I'm fine."
"You're panting worse than a cocker spaniel in heat. You're not fine."
Gracie dropped her head back against the headrest. She hated it when her sister was right. Especially when her sister wasn't right. A cocker spaniel in heat? Please. But she might be onto something about the not fine part.
"I just need a second to catch my breath." And an even longer second to figure out how to maneuver into a standing position from the passenger's seat of her sister's car without splatting like a human- sized pie on the driveway.
A gentle breeze coaxed a handful of leaves from the giant maple tree next to Gracie's driveway down onto the windshield of Mona's red Nissan. Wouldn't be long before Gracie's entire five acres crinkled with red, gold, and brown.
Oh, how she'd loved cannonballing into a huge crunchy pile of leaves as a kid.
Now, on the other side of forty, Gracie didn't see any cannonballs left in her future. Especially not with a body currently suited for a woman twice her age.
"Well?" Mona's pointy-toed shoe tapped an impatient beat against the pebbled driveway. "Has it been a long enough second?"
"Just a half second more."
Mona huffed. Between her suit jacket, brown hair, and glasses, and her ever-present puckered-lip disapproval, she was the spitting image of Joan Cusack's uptight principal role in School of Rock. "You should've just gone to the rehab facility," she muttered.
"We've already gone over that."
"Well, maybe we should go over it again." Mona leaned down, the scent of rosemary punching Gracie in the nose. When her sister quit smoking two years ago, she'd exchanged her nicotine dependence for a fierce obsession with essential oils. Some days, depending on the scent, Gracie wished her sister had taken to covering her body in nicotine patches instead.
"Are you listening to me? I said at the very least, you should have moved into Dad's house until it sells. Friendly neighborhood. Middle of town. Shoot, even the dumpy little cabin you're trying to rent out next door would be a better option than your house. No stairs. One level."
"You sound like a Realtor." Gracie batted her sister's rosemary scent away from her face.
"I am a Realtor."
"Well, stop talking like one, and talk like my sister."
"Fine. You're an idiot. Better?"
"Perfect. Now get out of the way." Gracie swiveled her feet to the driveway and bit back a cry. The crisp October air brought no relief to the fiery sparks igniting her pelvis whenever she moved the wrong way—which was any way since her little horse accident. A little horse accident she prayed nobody had captured on video.
Writhing on the pavement outside her small hometown's grocery store on Main Street wasn't exactly Gracie's preferred method for going viral and rebuilding her author platform.
Ignoring the sweat beginning to ooze down her temples, Gracie reached for the open door in an attempt to find leverage as she splinted her sore ribs with her other arm. "And just so you know, my adorably charming cottage isn't even available right now. Matt found a renter while I was in the hospital. And before you start hammering me with a thousand questions, no, I don't know who the renter is, and no, I don't care who the renter is. He paid the deposit and that's all I care about. Now not another word until you get me into the house."
...
