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“Craven,” I growled.
"Ok,” He said sternly, “So you do know."
“That’s my tree.”
He gave me a frustrated scowl. “Look, we’ve already started."
"I'm not paying for what you've already done."
“Already paid for.”
"And you're supposed to finish it today.” I was furious with Rook.
A part of me knew that it was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever done for me. But the other, more practical, experienced part of me distrusted anything that man did.
"Yes,” he answered.
"I don't want that tree cut down. I don't care what you've been told or paid. Keep the money, I don't care, but that tree isn’t coming down."
"Are you sure? The branches are too close to the house. They could fall and damage that new roof."
The roof! I'd forgotten about that. Swiveling, I turned to, sure enough, see a crew of men stripping shingles off my house.
For fucks sake…
"I don't want the tree cut down," I repeated myself, dealing with one thing at a time.
“Fine,” he threw his hands out, “but I can't leave the branch like that. I could get sued for liability."
“And maybe I'll sue you for not checking the ownership of the property before you start cutting down trees."
He sighed, shaking his head. Running a hand through his hair, he removed his hat and gestured to the tree. “Look, five branches need removal for safety. I'll leave the rest, and tell Mr. Craven to shove off if he complains. Deal?"
I stared longingly at the already sawed into tree branch. Callie was no longer paying any attention to us, or the tree, but was practicing her Spanish with the workers.
Well, it was too late now, anyhow.
Just as I was about to respond, a gray Lincoln car appeared, slowly making its way up my driveway.
What the hell next? Rook apparently just left the gate open for anyone and their dog to enter my property. Which reminded me, how on earth did he get into my house?
"Fine," I quickly agreed, already making my way towards the Lincoln. “But don't touch any more than five branches."
"You got it!" He called out, then, at his barked orders, his crew got back to work.
Within a few seconds, Callie had raced in front of me to greet the man exiting the Lincoln.
"Says he'll only speak to you," Callie had a hand on her hip, which was jutting out, a look of hot disbelief on her face. “Asshole,” she grumbled, not too quietly.
"Yes?" I didn't even have the energy in me to argue with whatever was coming next.
"Are you Summer Duvall?"
"Yes."
He reached into his sharp suit and pulled out a yellow, folded, manila envelope. He handed it to me. "You've been served."
* * *
