Mr. H.O.A.
Page 21
In other words, it was a trailer park like any other trailer park across America.
Single-wides, Airstreams, travel trailers, RVs. We had it all. We even laid claim to the fact that we had two double-wides in our park.
I set my bag of groceries down inside before I climbed the narrow, steep steps inside. I turned around and scanned the street—no sign of him. He wouldn’t follow me here. There was nothing to worry about.
I slammed the door then emptied my groceries onto the tiny counter space.
After I laid all the delicious ingredients for chocolate chip cookies out, I glanced down and realized my big toe was bleeding.
Darn it. I wanted to do a nail tutorial soon. I couldn’t do that if I had hamburger toes.
Opening the pantry—really it was a cupboard with two shelves—I pulled the first aid kit from the back. There weren’t any Band-Aids to be found, only a thick square piece of gauze and some tape.
My toe was still dripping blood, but it definitely wasn’t gauze-worthy. I’d just have to wash it off in the shower. I pulled the towel from my head and used it to clean off the avocado mask.
The trailer rocked as someone climbed the steps. I waited for Wren to open the door, but instead of the door opening, there was a knock. Probably Elise and Sam from next door. Both were retired and considered the news bearers of the trailer park. Good news, bad news. They liked to share it all. They popped over to chat all the time.
I set down the first aid kit and limped to the door. Why did toe injuries cause your entire leg to freeze up?
I would never know.
When I opened the door, my toe was the least of my worries.
Nate Mercier stood there. Grown-up, handsome as sin, and scowling angrily.
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A Love Like This Series:
Neighbors Like That
Christmas Like This
Friends Like These
Chick Lit:
Only in Colter Series:
The Perfect Plan