Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Now I realize as I continue to drip soup on her floor and pack my things that she's a little unhinged, and that's what she's protecting.
"You don't have anything to worry about, Ms. LeBlanc. I'd never speak a word of what happened here today."
"I'll sue you," she says, as if I didn't just agree to uphold the contract.
I give her a weak smile as I shoulder the straps to my tote of supplies, my stomach already grumbling at the thought of eating some of the things I made in preparation for today. She may not like the gazpacho, but it's delicious, and I'll eat it for dinner just to spite her.
"Where are you going?" she snaps as I give her a wide berth on my way to her front door. "Aren't you going to clean up your mess?"
Your mess... as if I'm the one who shrieked like a banshee and tossed soup on myself in the middle of her kitchen.
I pull in a deep but jagged breath as I turn back to face her, letting the strap of my reusable tote slip from my shoulder. The clank of the metal bowls I brought with me rings out around us as they settle inside the bag.
"Clean up?" I ask, giving her an opportunity to rethink her stance.
She won't, of course. Women like Scarlett LeBlanc are too self-important and too entitled to consider such things.
"This mess," she says, waving her hand in the direction of the soup splatter on her floor and counter, a clear void in the mess where I was in the perfect position to catch the soup she flung in my direction.
"I didn't make this mess," I say evenly.
"The contract includes a cleanup clause," she snaps.
"Do you think after throwing soup in my face that the contract is still in place?"
Her nose scrunches as if she can't believe I'd have the audacity to challenge her.
"Let's get an unbiased opinion," I say, pulling my phone from the inside pocket of the tote sitting at my feet. "I think Chief Tucker is the perfect person to call."
"You'd call the police for a contract disagreement? I swear this town is full of uneducated, backwoods, hillbil—"
"I'm calling to report the assault. You know, the soup you hit me with? But while he's here taking the report, which undoubtedly would be public record and discussed in the online community group before the end of the day, I can ask him what he thinks about the cleanup clause in your contract."
I don't ever recall another instance when I've seen someone flare their nostrils so wide.
"Get out of my home," she growls.
"But the mess," I remind her.
"Just leave."
"Dust Bunnies offers a fantastic service," I tell her with the best smile I can manage under the current situation.
I grab the strap of my bag and walk past her with my head held as high as I can manage, considering the condition I'm in leaving her house.
My chin is quivering by the time I get my supplies situated in the back seat of my car. I manage to make it to the empty parking lot outside of the old McGee building before the first tear falls.
I know better than to have put so much hope into one meeting, but it's a series of disappointments that run saltily down my cheeks.
The nerve of that woman to think for a second that her behavior is appropriate.
There isn't a single soul in Lindell that would treat her that way. If they didn't love her food, which, let's be honest, wouldn't happen—the food is fantastic—they'd smile in her face and talk trash about it behind her back like civilized folks. The only food that is supposed to be thrown and wasted is the whipped cream pies at several of the local fundraising festivals Lindell holds each year.
After too many tears fall, I'm able to get myself under control enough to get home, but the tears are renewed again once I realize I have to wash my hair more than once to get the soup out of it.
Chapter 2
Mac
"It's such a shame about your dad," Mr. McGee says as he shakes my hand in front of the vacant old building in downtown Lindell.
"Thank you," I tell him with a gentle dip of my head.
My father has been gone for ten years and counting, but maybe it makes sense for Mr. McGee to mention him, as I can't recall seeing or speaking to the man since he passed.
"Now, he was an incredible contractor."
I hear the hint of unease in his voice, as if he's unsure that I'm capable of doing the same job my father would've done for him. It's nothing new. There are a lot of folks around town who have opinions on my younger generation, and I can't count the number of times that I've surprised people with my abilities. They even see it as a compliment when they tell me they thought I would fail or do a poor job.