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“Bite me,” she snarls as she turns from the table and walks toward the door. I can’t help that my eyes fall to her ass, and yeah… her shorts might be considered a little matronly, but it still doesn’t stop me from admiring the curves under them.
If I had her naked beneath me, I’d absolutely put my teeth on her ass cheek and take a bite.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Highsmith. Get a grip.
Tilden walks out the door, and I glance over at the bar. Cici and the other women huddle together talking… no doubt about me.
The two men are blatantly staring, waiting for pictures. I don’t want to fucking do it, but for some reason, I’m not feeling the need to let all my anger and guilt out. I’m certainly not feeling the need to unleash it the way I did back in Pittsburgh.
Christ, I just willingly stepped in and stopped those women from torturing Tilden Marshall, who I don’t even like. If that’s not the opposite of asshole, I don’t know what is.
I pull out my wallet and throw cash on the table beside Tilden’s. She’s going to be on my property, working to clean upher mess, and I think I might go watch so I can offer unsolicited advice.
I try to ignore that I’m feeling the need to rev up my asshole engine, not because of what Tilden has done but rather because of what she’s making me feel. Resolved, I head down toward the men to let them take some selfies with me first.
CHAPTER 8
Tillie
This may havebeen the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. What started as an elaborate prank cost me a lot of time—and money—and now it’s costing me more time as I clean up.
As well as dinging my pride.
I suppose I can’t be surprised that the man was so pissed at what I’d done he had threatened to call the cops. And while I don’t know if he’ll follow through, I’m not willing to risk handcuffs.
Besides, his deck is kind of trashed from the birds—something I had not considered—and I don’t like causing destruction.
The first thing I do upon arrival is attack the deck. I’m armed with a broom, trash bags, cleanser, and scrub brushes. I also brought resealable bags, into which I dump the seed and nuts, close them up, and leave them by his back door in case he wants to use the stuff in the future.
Probably not, but it’s not worth hauling back to my house. I have plenty to feed the wildlife in my own backyard.
Pulling up the salt lick spiral stakes takes much longer than putting them in the ground, but I have to admit… they were a great idea when I thought he’d be the one getting them out. I set them in a pile at the back of his yard near the tree line we’re battling over. I’ll pull them off the metal stakes and repurpose them on the trails when I get a chance. I’ll have to build some post stands, but nothing I can’t handle. In addition to beingan artist, my dad was an amateur woodworker, and I learned a thing or two over the years.
Plus, I have all his tools and equipment he left behind when he died.
A sudden longing hits me square in the chest, deep within my heart. It was only a year and a half ago that I lost my parents on a wintry night after their car spun off the road and hit a tree.
I try to push the pain down as I make my way to the bird feeders hanging from the trees, but it’s not easy. I was close to my parents.
I lived with them my entire life, outside of my four years at the Savannah College of Art and Design. When I moved back home after graduating with my bachelor’s in fine arts, concentration on painting, I never once thought about getting a place of my own.
And I didn’t stay with my parents for financial reasons. I had a job and could afford my own place.
It’s just… I not only loved them, but I liked them so much I always wanted to be around them.
Sure, it made me look a little odd, still living with my parents at twenty-five. Cici and her girl gang tortured me over it with snide comments, but I’m used to that stuff.
Losing my mom and dad, though… it’s a pain that hasn’t lessened, and I wonder if it ever will.
It’s why I want to build this studio so badly, as a means to honor them. My parents were amazing artists and made their living off their work. More than that, they taught their skills for free to anyone in the community who wanted to learn, and I want to carry that on.
We weren’t well off and living on artists’ wages did indeed mean I had to shop discount for my clothes, but we were happy and filled with love and inspiration and beauty every day. Such a simple life, and I’m only trying to recreate it for my new self.
For the me who exists without them.
“I expect you to get all the deer food and seed off the ground.”
I jump in shock, whirling to see Coen walking toward me. In one hand, he has a folding lawn chair, and in the other, a small cooler.
