Looking down at myself, I took in what I was wearing.
Cutoff sweats that had seen so many things, a ratty t-shirt that wasn’t any better than the holey sweats, and socks that covered the space from where I’d cut off my sweats down to my feet.
It was not an attractive look.
I looked to the side and spotted a long-sleeved flannel thrown haphazardly over the back of a kitchen chair, partially dragging on the floor.
Snatching it up, I threw it on over my shirt, buttoned it up halfway, then shimmied out of my sweatpants.
Kicking them off to the side of the kitchen, near where I assumed was the laundry room, I walked to the door in my mostly white socks.
The doorbell sounded again just as my hand met the knob, causing me to yank it open and glare. “Can I help you?”
I don’t know what I expected to see when I opened the door, but it wasn’t a woman with blue hair and a septum piercing the size of a literal bull ring.
No joke, it was so large that it had to inhibit her breathing.
The woman blinked owlishly at me. “Uhhh.”
“Is there a reason that you’ve rang that doorbell so many times?”
She bit her lip, and the septum ring dragged against her teeth. “Is Gentry here?”
It angered me that someone else was calling him by my nickname.
“He’s not,” I decided on the simple truth. “What can I help you with? I’m his wife.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re what?”
Okay, so I didn’t like people thinking that we were divorced.
It annoyed me.
I wasn’t divorce material.
I would’ve made him damn happy had everything between us been real.
I would’ve bent over backward to make a man like Gentry happy. He was that good of a man.
“I’m. His. Wife,” I said. “Is there a reason you’re here? And how did you get past the gate, anyway?”
She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. “Uh, you and Gentry are married?”
I tilted my head. “Are you having trouble understanding English? Should I switch to dumbass?”
Okay, so maybe I was angry that she was here.
I should probably cool it, but my god. The woman had to be terrible to make a grown man run away.
Literally.
“If you live here, where’s your car?” she accused.
What did she think, she was a detective?
“In the garage, although I fail to see how that is any of your business.” I shrugged. “Now, let’s talk about how you hopped over a locked fence, walked down the length of the driveway—which is a mile long, might I add—and then hopped another fence?” I asked. “All without knowing what kind of animals are here. Because I have a very reactive dog that doesn’t respond well to intruders.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Then maybe you should have that dog put down if random people showing up alarms him.”
