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Yeah, flesh-ripping teeth and claws aside, he’s not half bad.
I’ve never seen anything devour a hunk of meat like the tiger does, either.
She takes a red, raw roast out of the cooler we’d transferred from the back of her truck to mine. I nearly have a heart attack when she struts over and lays it down in front of him, like serving dinner to a king.
The beast doesn’t go for the meat till she steps back and tells Bruce to eat.
Oh, he eats it up, all right.
Every fucking morsel.
In about two hulking chomps.
“I’ve never seen a barn like this,” she says as we exit the building a short while later. “It’s so sturdy, almost like it was made for him.”
“Amen to that. Don’t know if I’d feel safe keeping this boy behind nothing but wood,” I tell her, closing the solid steel door and securing the outside latch. “My father built this place years ago. Designed and built it, I should say.”
“What for?” she asks with a giggle. “Doomsday?”
I snort because that’s exactly the running joke whenever people see it.
“Nah, my dad wanted to raise pigs originally, but my mama told him any pig that got her vegetable garden would be a dead one. Pigs are notorious escape artists, so my father got the supplies from our local oil company and built himself hog Alcatraz.”
She snickers, batting her soft-blue eyes in a way I’m careful to ignore.
I’m not letting those manic pixie stranger good-looks do more damage than they already have.
“But there aren’t any pigs now?” Willow asks as we head for the house.
“Nope, that was over when I was young. My folks died in a car accident shortly after I joined the Army. The pigs were sold by my brother, and when I came home, I didn’t want to be a pig farmer.”
That’s close enough to the truth.
She doesn’t need to know I couldn’t pig farm, even if I wanted to try it. Didn’t have the time, not with Brittany’s illness and the girls.
“Is that when you bought the bar?”
I answer with a nod, though technically I hadn’t bought the bar till a few years ago, well after Brittany was dead and buried along with my parents.
Luckily, between the Army pay and my inheritance, finances weren’t a dream killer.
Some days, when I struggle to balance the girls and work, I wonder if I should’ve chosen something else. If it wasn’t for Aunt Faye, I might have. I hadn’t realized just how much I depended on her watching the girls till she’d left this summer.
Just a couple months. I thought it’d be fine. Simple and easy.
Right.
We step on the front porch and embarrassment strikes. I’m not a messy dude, but even after strict military training, I’m not the neatest person born, either.
Between my aunt being gone, and the girls leaving for camp, the place isn’t in the best shape. I’d planned on cleaning it before they come home, and still do.
It’s like I’m waiting for a miracle. Mary Poppins to drop out of the sky and take care of the girls till Aunt Faye returns—which won’t be till school starts, probably, over two months from now.
Whatever. I’ll figure it out.
Ideally after I sort out this crazy tiger chick dilemma.
“Wow!” she says with a gasp that yanks me from my thoughts. “Such a beautiful home. It reminds me of the big old farm houses you see on TV all the time. You’re not Netflix famous, right?”
I shoot her a glare of disbelief. “Do I look Netflix famous?”
“Sorry. Bad joke.” She flushes and shakes her head, her bottom lip dipping into her mouth pensively.
“Forget it. I’m the one who’s sorry for being on edge,” I whisper, dragging my door open. “There’s a bedroom off the kitchen you can sleep in.”
It was a back porch once, but I’d turned it into a bedroom and bathroom for Brittany in her final days. Climbing the stairs was too much for her then.
Pushing those dark thoughts away, I click on the overhead light in the living room.
“This way,” I tell her, leading us through the house.
We walk past the living room with its sofa and both armchairs still covered with clothes the girls pulled downstairs. They wanted to take the outfits to camp before they figured out there wasn’t enough room in their suitcases for everything. Ignoring the clothes, I press onward to the kitchen.
“Gold star for having an actual home. I was expecting a man cave. Who else lives here?” she asks.
“My daughters, but they’re off at summer camp.” Knowing she saw the piles of clothes, I add, “Sorry for the mess. They didn’t have time to put away everything before they left.”
“And your wife?”
I almost fucking choke.
It’s such an innocent, honest, disarming question but...
I don’t expect it.
I’m used to dealing with folks who know my situation.
