Today's Reading
"And how am I supposed to get you anywhere when every time I touch you, you hiss at me like a feral cat?"
"You're the one with the claws."
Mona waved her red-painted talons. "You saying I lack a soft touch?"
"Yes, Wolverine. That's exactly what I'm saying."
A chime sounded. Mona whipped her phone out of her purse faster than a gunslinger at high noon. "What now?" she said in greeting as she hip-checked the car door right into Gracie's shins.
"Ow. Nice soft touch."
"Sorry." Mona's lips, as red as her nails, twisted toward the phone. "No, not sorry to you. I already told you the house wouldn't be ready for viewing until next week."
"Mona, before you badger that poor soul any further, can you at least help me stand so I'm not stranded in this seat?"
Her sister marched away, badgering the poor soul further and leaving Gracie stranded in her seat.
Terrific. Gracie closed her eyes and inhaled several tortured breaths as her sister paced back and forth, chastising the caller, then soon the entire male population—a common recurrence ever since Mona's boyfriend left her high, dry, and pregnant twenty-three years ago.
At this rate, Gracie would either be completely healed or completely dead before she even made it out of the car.
Gracie dropped her head sideways onto the headrest. Maybe she was being an idiot. Not about the rehab facility. Oh, no. Gracie knew about those places. They were the types of places a person enters and never leaves. Just ask her poor dad.
Last thing Gracie needed was to be surrounded by geriatrics watching Wheel of Fortune, all but forgotten by family who at first visited faithfully every day, then dropped their visits to three days a week, soon followed by weekends only, then eventually major holidays, weather permitting.
Just ask her poor dad.
Okay, maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. Up until her horse accident, Gracie had visited Buck every day. Still, the rehab facility had never been an option—not even when Gracie's orthopedic surgeon claimed it her best option for the next couple of days.
Gracie didn't need physical therapy sessions to get back on her feet. She needed a bestseller.
Gracie held her side, the memory of her conversation with her agent aching worse than her ribs. Sales have been stagnant... Last book bombed... Need something new... Something fun... Get back to your earlier brand... Find that romantic zing... Make people laugh...
Sure, sure, sure. Make people laugh. Find that romantic zing. Gracie could do that. She would do that. Soon as she figured out how to get out of this car without dying.
Her eyes drifted to the white two-story farmhouse with painted green shutters. A giant Welcome Home banner hung from the roof above the wraparound porch where it looked like people had already started dropping off casserole dishes.
As if she needed one entire casserole for herself, let alone twelve. Another ache that had nothing to do with her bruised ribs squeezed her entire chest as she continued gazing at the home she used to share with her husband. The house that she could never bring herself to sell—even after he became her ex-husband.
Probably because she'd fallen in love with this property even faster than she'd fallen for her ex. Noah, we have to get it. We have to. Just look at that view. Gracie had motioned to the pink sunset fading over rows of farmland as far as the eye could see from the front porch swing, before dragging him to the back of the house so she could amaze him with the tree line. It's like our own secret forest back here. Look, there's even a little cabin.
Thankfully there wasn't a lot of competition for a run-down house on a property in central Illinois located in the middle of nowhere. Her hometown of Alda sat the closest, and that was a good twenty-minute drive away. Their pitiful offer got accepted. Then when they went through their pitiful divorce years later, this was the only part of their marriage Gracie wanted to keep.
Maybe because despite all the heartache, despite the bad ending, she'd dreamed up some of her best story ideas within the walls of that farmhouse. Stories bursting with zing.
More importantly, sales.
...
