Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 694(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Yeah, that’s what she would have said, and it’s almost embarrassing how much I’m craving a hug from beyond from the one person who always believed in me.
I swallow down those emotions, though, as Garth hands me a crisp sheet of paper. There’s a four-letter word across the top.
Deed.
I blink. I wasn’t expecting that. I take the paper, but the words feel like they’re levitating off the page. It feels like someone else holds the paper, like someone else reads it, like someone else is wondering why my grandmother left me a deed for…a small firehouse in the town of Cozy Valley.
“She bought the abandoned firehouse?” I ask, taking my time with every word. “The…one?”
As in, the one where not only the llamas knocked over the pancakes, but a goat ate all the money raised, and a pig flipped the bacon table. (Well, that was understandable, and more power to his protest.)
“Yes, that one. She bought it about a week before she died. Bid on it at a property auction.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice trembling.
The answer is in black and white and bright pink. Now I can see the Post-it note, and it reads in her loopy, pretty handwriting: “For Mabel, as you see fit.”
My heart stutters. It’s a message. Short and sweet, but crystal clear. And it does feel like a hug from her. Especially those four words—As you see fit.
They’re full of a faith in me that I didn’t feel from Jonas, or Ronnie, or my ex. A faith I don’t feel from my parents. Maybe a faith I need.
I meet Garth’s eyes, grappling with this life-changing news. “Is this for real? My grandmother left me a…fire station?”
Not just any station. This is the station. The place where Grandma took the photos for the calendar. The station where my great-grandmother pioneered a place for women in the fire service.
“I didn’t think it was for sale,” I say, dumbstruck.
“It had been closed for a while, then some company bought it and began renovations, but when they went into foreclosure, it was put up for auction. Your grandmother won it. The deed was issued a few days later, after the payment was received.” He taps the paper with a well-manicured finger. “Looks like she meant to give it to you before she died. It’s yours. As is.”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m so shell-shocked I can barely process this gift from the afterlife. Except for one little detail.
Or really, one big one.
“Does it…have a kitchen?”
7
CUTTHROAT MABEL
CORBIN
I’m not someone who’s into pumpkin spice anything.
But my daughter is, and it’s fall, so I grab the cinnamon from the fourth shelf in the pantry, then the pecans from the third. I set them on the kitchen island next to the monkey bread I made late last night to unwind after the game. I’ll give it out to my neighbors later. The ingredients will be ready for Charlotte’s return from her mom’s house in—I check the digital clock on the wall—about three hours and five minutes, and we can make brown butter chocolate chip pumpkin blondies with nuts, as per my daughter’s request. Sure, it’s early, but I like to be prepared—that’s how you can do it all.
After I select the other ingredients, along with mixing bowls, and line them up neatly on the counter, I swipe open my kitchen inventory app on my tablet, marking what I’m using and what is running low.
Done. Do I need to inventory items in my home kitchen? Technically, no, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the bakery I’ll open someday, just like Mom always wanted.
Someday far, far away.
And would you look at that? I haven’t even thought about Mabel’s text from last night. The one where she wrote: We’re all good! Glad you enjoyed the cake!
Fine. I’ll admit I’ve thought about it a few times today. Mostly to ask myself why I’d been so damn invested in one kiss yesterday when I should have been focused on scoring on the ice. Hell, that kiss is probably what knocked me off my game. But the real answer is simple. You can’t just kiss someone like that—impulsively, out of the blue, like your soul is on fire—and not acknowledge it.
Especially since it was more than a kiss. I didn’t plan to kiss her, back her up against the door, grind against her. Or groan like she was the best thing I’d tasted in ages.
But she absolutely was.
And yet, here I am, reminding myself—like I did when I left the arena last night—that nothing more can happen. A secret hook up with my friend’s little sister is definitely not part of my plan for the season. It won’t help me stay healthy, guide my team deep into the playoffs instead of getting humiliatingly swept in round one, or take care of my little family.