had big plans before she showed up on Austen’s doorstep, and it wasn’t going to be without a job, without any money and in a car that should be condemned.
Once safely behind the wheel, she tossed the can of peas onto the backseat, the afternoon sun winking happily on the metal. It fit right in with the hodge-podge of things. A portable cooler, one beat-up gym bag, her collection of real estate magazines, the plastic water jug and now peas.
Peas.
What the heck was she supposed to do with peas?
2
T HE LED WAS blinking a steady green over his front porch, the motion detector nearly hidden beneath the old wood doorframe. From inside, he could hear the sound of a dog barking.
All clear.
Not that anyone was going to break into his less than fancy house, but old habits were hard to break. There was no dog, only a pimped out robotic vacuum cleaner with two golden LEDs for eyes and a mechanical tail that wagged. Not the cutest puppy, but Jason Kincaid had invented the only canine in the world that cleaned up after itself.
While Dog wheeled around the floor, Jason put down his keys, pulled on his faded Orioles cap and went outside to work. The missing can of peas didn’t concern him. Jason hated peas, but every Monday he went to the Hinkle’s store to shop. He hated shopping, too, but his father had told him he needed to get out more, so every Tuesday when his dad called, he could tell the old man—with complete honesty—that he’d been out shopping only yesterday.
Outside the house, the flat terrain was exactly the same. The front yard, the backyard, the four storage sheds and even the detached one car garage were filled with lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners, small engines, large engines, lumber and scrap metal.
He’d never invited his family to visit because the house looked too much like a junkyard, like the long neglected habitat of a man who needed to live alone.
Which it was.
Jason pulled down the socket wrench from the upright mattress springs that had been recycled into his Wall O’ Tools and got to work.
The current project was a five horsepower lawnmower in desperate need of a new carburetor or a humane burial, but Jason wasn’t ready to give it up for dead. Not yet.
He’d just gotten air to blow clean through the tube when the red LED on the porch began to glow. Motion detectors had been strategically placed across the ten acres of his land, wired to let him know whenever anyone decided to intrude—like now. Jason glanced toward the road and noticed the cloud of dust.
A HAV, or, in layman’s terms, a car still unidentified.
Salesmen didn’t come out this far. He’d never met the neighbors, which were four acres away on either side, so when people showed up at his gate, they were usually lost.
After pulling his cap down a little lower, Jason made his way to the front gate, an eight foot, black, metal monster that he’d rescued from an old sanitarium. It looked exactly like it belonged at the front entrance of a sanitarium, which was why Jason had wanted it, and why the sanitarium didn’t.
From behind the iron bars, he watched the beaten-up Impala approach. The rear door was black, the driver’s side door was red, and the hood was sunshine-yellow. If Henry Ford and Picasso had gone out on a bender, that car was what the hangover would have looked like.
Jason stayed steady and impassive, not angry or unfriendly, but stood and watched as a woman exited the world’s worst excuse for a car.
Her.
She still had the same never-say-die smile, which, considering the state of her transport, was just flat-out stupid. Once she was at the gate, a mere two feet from him, she held up the can of peas.
“You left these.” Her voice was nice, not high and birdlike, but no cigarette smoke, either. Sonya had a low, husky voice. At one point, Jason had thought it was sexy.
“You didn’t have to bring them all the way out here.” He probably should thank her for it, but he was distracted by the beads
Once safely behind the wheel, she tossed the can of peas onto the backseat, the afternoon sun winking happily on the metal. It fit right in with the hodge-podge of things. A portable cooler, one beat-up gym bag, her collection of real estate magazines, the plastic water jug and now peas.
Peas.
What the heck was she supposed to do with peas?
2
T HE LED WAS blinking a steady green over his front porch, the motion detector nearly hidden beneath the old wood doorframe. From inside, he could hear the sound of a dog barking.
All clear.
Not that anyone was going to break into his less than fancy house, but old habits were hard to break. There was no dog, only a pimped out robotic vacuum cleaner with two golden LEDs for eyes and a mechanical tail that wagged. Not the cutest puppy, but Jason Kincaid had invented the only canine in the world that cleaned up after itself.
While Dog wheeled around the floor, Jason put down his keys, pulled on his faded Orioles cap and went outside to work. The missing can of peas didn’t concern him. Jason hated peas, but every Monday he went to the Hinkle’s store to shop. He hated shopping, too, but his father had told him he needed to get out more, so every Tuesday when his dad called, he could tell the old man—with complete honesty—that he’d been out shopping only yesterday.
Outside the house, the flat terrain was exactly the same. The front yard, the backyard, the four storage sheds and even the detached one car garage were filled with lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners, small engines, large engines, lumber and scrap metal.
He’d never invited his family to visit because the house looked too much like a junkyard, like the long neglected habitat of a man who needed to live alone.
Which it was.
Jason pulled down the socket wrench from the upright mattress springs that had been recycled into his Wall O’ Tools and got to work.
The current project was a five horsepower lawnmower in desperate need of a new carburetor or a humane burial, but Jason wasn’t ready to give it up for dead. Not yet.
He’d just gotten air to blow clean through the tube when the red LED on the porch began to glow. Motion detectors had been strategically placed across the ten acres of his land, wired to let him know whenever anyone decided to intrude—like now. Jason glanced toward the road and noticed the cloud of dust.
A HAV, or, in layman’s terms, a car still unidentified.
Salesmen didn’t come out this far. He’d never met the neighbors, which were four acres away on either side, so when people showed up at his gate, they were usually lost.
After pulling his cap down a little lower, Jason made his way to the front gate, an eight foot, black, metal monster that he’d rescued from an old sanitarium. It looked exactly like it belonged at the front entrance of a sanitarium, which was why Jason had wanted it, and why the sanitarium didn’t.
From behind the iron bars, he watched the beaten-up Impala approach. The rear door was black, the driver’s side door was red, and the hood was sunshine-yellow. If Henry Ford and Picasso had gone out on a bender, that car was what the hangover would have looked like.
Jason stayed steady and impassive, not angry or unfriendly, but stood and watched as a woman exited the world’s worst excuse for a car.
Her.
She still had the same never-say-die smile, which, considering the state of her transport, was just flat-out stupid. Once she was at the gate, a mere two feet from him, she held up the can of peas.
“You left these.” Her voice was nice, not high and birdlike, but no cigarette smoke, either. Sonya had a low, husky voice. At one point, Jason had thought it was sexy.
“You didn’t have to bring them all the way out here.” He probably should thank her for it, but he was distracted by the beads
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