by Maisey Yates
Keep going.
She was not going to be thwarted now over something this stupid.
She got out of the truck, her plate of cookies and her just-in-case note in hand. She pocketed the truck keys, locked everything behind her and marched right over the tree, carrying on up the road.
“If there are any cougars out there,” she said. “Do not eat me.”
She was not about to die a thirty-one-year-old virgin with no career.
Whose one and only attempt at dating had resulted in facing the truth that things were as she’d often feared.
Given the option, a man would choose her younger sister over her.
As much as that bothered her, of the two, currently the business situation bothered her the most. Because it was the one she felt motivated to fix.
The other... Well, she’d lived this long with it. It wasn’t going to hurt her if it stayed. Anyway. She had a feeling that her biggest problem was the fact that she didn’t do much of anything. This business was the start of that. The start of the change. Shoving all thoughts of her virginity to the side, she continued on up the narrow road. She tightened her hands on the plate. It was beautiful out here, but a touch eerie.
The trees were tall and green, and it was impossible to see too deeply into the woods, because the plants were so dense. It was wild out here. And for being so near to town, it felt wholly removed.
She took a left from the gravel road, onto an even narrower, more harrowing road. It was a hike up toward his house. Whatever vehicle the man drove, it had to have tires that were bigger than the truck she’d come in. She muttered as she hiked up the trail. And then she saw it. It was not a grand custom home. It was a little cabin, dilapidated and run-down.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “There’s no way he even actually lives here.”
And if he did, there was something wrong with him. He was like a full-on ax murderer or something.
She shoved that thought to the side. At least she had told Rose where she was going today. And her other sister was the police chief. So, Rose would tell Pansy, and Pansy would come up guns blazing if Iris were gone for too long. So, there was that.
“That would figure,” she thought. “I try to do something out of my comfort zone, and I walked myself into a horror movie.”
Yeah. It was just a little bit too on the nose.
But she was determined, and she wasn’t going to back down now. Stealing herself, she picked her way over the uneven ground and walked up the porch, nearly losing her balance on a loose board. The place was an absolute dive.
The wood was old, and part of it was covered in moss. The siding was split, and the porch... Well, she was afraid she was going to fall right through it.
She took a breath, and knocked on the door. And waited.
“This was stupid,” she muttered under her breath. There was no way anyone was actually here. There was no way anyone could actually... Live here.
But then, she heard footsteps. And she waited.
The door jerked open, and her heart tried to take a hard fast beat through the front of her chest. Because standing in the doorway was the biggest man she’d ever seen. Tall and broad, a black cowboy hat resting low on his head.
His eyes were wild, intense. If she’d hoped to find a welcome there, she could see she wouldn’t. He had a full, dark beard, and tattoos running up his massive forearms.
He said nothing. He only stared her down, the glint in his blue eyes so hard it made her feel like she was pinned to the spot.
But she had left her truck halfway down the mountain, trapped behind a fallen tree. She had hiked up this narrow road... And no amount of glaring was going to deter her from her mission.
“Griffin Chance? I brought you some cookies.”
Copyright © 2021 by Maisey Yates
ISBN-13: 9781488077869
Confessions from the Quilting Circle
Copyright © 2021 by Maisey Yates
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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