Besides, this is where I’m settling for the foreseeable future, so I might as well start integrating.

  Before I leave, I peek out the back sliding door to the yard beyond. There aren’t any deer out there, but I think that has to do with the time of day. Squirrels hang out on the deck, and birds fly to and from the feeding dishes. There’s bird shit everywhere, and I’m going to make sure Ms. Marshall cleans that up too.

  It takes no more than ten minutes to navigate the winding roads into town. I’m loving the new truck I bought after unloading the G-Wagon and Maserati.

  It feels right.

  Unpretentious.

  I don’t have to impress anyone here, although I didn’t have to impress anyone back in Pittsburgh either.

  I drive past the courthouse and hang a left on Main Street, which is quite charming. Most of the buildings are red brick and two or three stories tall, stacked side by side. They house law firms, cafés, bars, a hardware store, and even an old cinema that shows only one movie.

  I decide on Masha’s Bar and Grill for no other reason than the name Masha is cool.

  Despite the large windows along the front, the interior is dark due to the wood paneling and dark-stained wood floors. A long bar runs along the back wall and tables are scattered about. It’s a bit early for the rush hour, so the tables are only half occupied. Two men sit at the bar with beers in front of them.

  It never occurs to me to take a table. I’m in a bar, so that sort of demands sitting there. I take a position on the short end so my back isn’t facing the door. I’m only here to eat, so when the bartender asks for my poison, I order a Diet Coke.

  I’m normally not a soda drinker, but I’m also picky about my water, and the kind they serve here comes out of the tap. A can of pop is the lesser of two evils today.

  I’m provided with a menu that actually looks good, and after a quick perusal, I order a Reuben with chips.

  Can’t say there have been a lot of good things about leaving hockey behind, but one is not having to watch my diet so meticulously. I still eat relatively healthy, but during the season in the thick of training, I count macros and deny myself a lot of food pleasures.

  Having a Reuben in a bar seems like a guilty pleasure, and fuck if I’m not enjoying it.

  The two men at the bar give me a glance—no double take of recognition—and go back to talking. The bartender is also serving as waiter for the half-empty restaurant, so he barely spares me a look.

  For now, it seems I’m flying under the radar, and I like it.

  My soda is served, and I watch the TV as I wait for my food. People come in and out. Another couple sits at the opposite end of the bar, barely noticing me.

  I turn slightly on my stool, look out across the tables to see if the place is getting busier, and then I’m the one doing a double take.

  Not ten feet behind me at a tiny corner table sits Tilden Marshall. She’s got what looks like a lemonade in front of her and a plate with only a few french fries alongside the crumbs of what I’m guessing was a sandwich. She’s oblivious to the world, body hunched over a sketchbook on the table as she draws something I can’t see, her arm protectively curled around her work.

  Clearly, she’s not worried about my threats as she’s decided to have a leisurely lunch rather than clean my yard. To be fair, however, I did give her until the end of the day, and there are still plenty of hours left.

  I turn back to face the bar, intent on ignoring her and hoping she doesn’t see me. Luckily, my food arrives, and I tuck in while watching a baseball game on the TV.

  I’m so immersed in what’s an amazing fucking sandwich and the game that I don’t realize there are people next to me at the bar until I hear giggling.

  Glancing over, I see three women on stools adjacent to me. They put their purses on the wooden top and one of them calls to the bartender, “Hey, Jimmy… three cosmopolitans, please.”

  He holds up an index finger indicating he’ll be a minute and starts pulling pints of draft beer for another order.

  I duck my head and continue to eat my sandwich, feeling pinned in by their proximity. They’re all dressed in low-cut blouses, tight jeans, and heels. Hair and makeup all done up as if they were getting ready to go out for a night on the town rather than lunch in a small-town bar in rural Pennsylvania.

  “Ask him,” one girl says.

  Another whispers, far too loudly, “No, you ask him.”

  Fuck… I’ve been recognized.

  I act as if I can’t hear them, hoping they’ll get the hint I don’t want to be bothered, but one of them is bold. She scoots her stool closer to the corner of the bar, which puts her closer to me. “My name’s Cici. Let me guess… you’re here for some trout fishing?” she asks.

  I’m relieved she clearly doesn’t recognize me, but apparently, I’m getting soft because the Coen Highsmith of just a month ago would’ve told her to fuck off. Instead, I shake my head without even looking at her. “Just some peace and quiet.”

  “Pity,” she says with a pout to her tone. “Maybe if—”

  “Cici… look who’s here,” one of the women says, interrupting her friend.

  From my periphery, I see Cici swivel her stool to look behind us.

  “Oh my,” she purrs as she slides off her seat and walks out of my line of vision. The other women snicker. “This will be fun.”

  I pick up a potato chip, happy she’s gone, and focus back on the TV. I’m intent on drowning out distractions and keeping myself closed off in case the women get chatty again, but my spine stiffens as I hear the woman, Cici, talking behind me.

  “If it isn’t Tillie Hillbilly.” I glance over my shoulder. Cici’s standing beside Tilden’s table, arms crossed over her chest, her hip cocked as she stares down at my neighborhood nemesis.

  Cici would be considered beautiful by most men’s standards. Slamming body, perfect facial features, and completely comfortable in tight clothing that reveals skin—the type of woman I’ve banged on many occasions.

  Tilden doesn’t look up from her sketch pad but continues to draw, doing what I’m thinking is a common tactic—ignoring the taunts. Clearly by Cici’s childish nickname, they have a history, I’m guessing back to grade school.

  “Oh, come on, Tillie,” Cici croons as she slips into the chair opposite. She clacks her acrylic nails on the tabletop. “Let’s talk about your wardrobe today. I’m guessing you picked that outfit up at the thrift shop, and honestly…” Here, she looks back at her girlfriends standing there watching with glittering, amused eyes. “No one wears shorts like that. Well, except my grandma.”

  The women titter with laughter, and I feel like I’m watching a bad nineties’ movie. Who the fuck acts like this in real life?

  I mean… I know how to be a dick, but it’s mostly reactive. I’d never seek someone out with the sole intent of tearing them down.

  To give Tilden credit, she doesn’t take the bait but continues to ignore Cici. And I know it’s not because she’s afraid or intimidated, because that woman doesn’t know how to be wary, as evidenced by the way she pokes at me.

  If I had to guess, it’s that she’s waiting for Cici to go away because engaging is what the mean girl wants.

  And because she’s not getting it, the pretty bully turns up her viciousness. She leans close in a faux gesture of wanting to say something privately, but she talks loud enough for anyone around to hear. “Tillie… if I can give you some advice?”

  Tilden continues to draw and ignores the woman.

  Cici looks over at her girlfriends and winks slyly before turning back. “It’s just… you really don’t have the body type to be wearing clothes like that.” She stabs an uneaten french fry from Tilden’s plate, holds it up with a grimace, and throws it back down. “Maybe less of these, and a little more exercise, and you might be able to pull it off.”

  My jaw drops. I mean… I’m a flat-out douchebag, but that’s just fucking evil.

  Tilden flinches but doesn’t reply.

  I, on the other hand, find myself moving without much thought. I pick up my plate and soda, slide off my stool, and move to the table.

  Cici looks up at me, a brilliant smile in place.

  I don’t smile back. “You’re in my seat.”

  Tilden’s head jerks upward in astonishment, her eyes practically bugging out of her head.

  “Excuse me?” Cici frowns and points to herself. “I’m in your seat?”

  “Yeah.” I set my plate and glass down. “So if you don’t mind, move.”

  Cici’s mouth hangs open and for a few seconds, she doesn’t twitch a muscle. Then she slowly rises, clearly unsure of what’s happening.

  It would almost be comical—both she and Tilden wearing similar expressions of bewilderment—if it wasn’t for someone tapping me on the shoulder.

  I turn to see the two men who were at the bar, their eyes wide and hopeful. “Man… you’re Coen Highsmith, aren’t you?”

  Suppressing a groan, I manage to nod. “Yeah.”

  “Holy fucking shit, I knew it,” one man says, and the other asks, “Can we get a picture with you?”

  “Actually… I’m just here to have lunch with a friend.” I glance down at Tilden, who is still staring up at me with her jaw hanging open. “Maybe when I’m done.”

  “Oh yeah, man… sure.” The men back away, grinning and nudging each other like they’ve just discovered a room full of naked women.

  Cici stares at me, appraising. She must know hockey because it’s obvious she recognizes my name. Sweeping her hand toward the bar, she asks, “How about you let me buy you a drink?”

  “How about you let me have my lunch with my friend?” I reply, an edge to my tone so sharp, she might just bleed from it.

  Cici flinches, and that makes me happy.

  There’s the asshole I love and adore.

  “You’re going to have to move away from the chair so I can sit down,” I say, and she manages to look hurt and offended as she steps to the side.

  I settle into the chair, scoot in, and pick up my sandwich. “Hey, Tillie.”

  She merely stares at me, and for the first time in months, I have the urge to laugh. Like the genuine welling up of amusement that must be let out. I don’t, though, and manage to stun her further, but my next words aren’t for her benefit. “You’re looking very pretty today. I love your outfit.”

  Tilden looks down at her clothing, back up to me, and blinks.

  I do believe I’ve managed to stun her speechless, and it makes me gleeful.

  Cici and her cohorts stand there staring, and now it’s becoming awkward. I stare pointedly at them. “Do you ladies mind giving us some privacy?”

  They huff and look doubly offended, but they grab their purses and cosmos that the bartender must have set down while all this was happening, and move to the other end of the bar.

  My head turns back to look at the woman sitting across from me.

  Tilden Marshall.

  My nemesis.

  No longer looking befuddled, she glares at me. “What the hell was that?”

  I glance back at the women, throwing a thumb their way. “Them? Looks like petty bullies who needed to be put in their place.”

  “Yeah, I get that part. But what’s with the whole sitting down with my friend? We are not friends.”

  “No, we are not,” I agree.

  She frowns slightly. “And you’re… you’re… Coen Highsmith?”

  “That I am,” I mutter, not with any amount of pride.

  A moment of silence drags on before she asks hesitantly, “Okay… who is Coen Highsmith?”

  No stopping the snort, but I do put a halt to a full-out laugh. Grinning, I set my sandwich down and pick up a chip. “Fuck, it’s refreshing not being recognized.”

  She still stares at me.

  “I’m a hockey player. I play for the Titans.” Awareness transforms her face into a mask of sympathy. “Or rather, I used to play for them.”

  “The plane crash,” she breathes out. “I mean… I don’t watch hockey, or any sports, for that matter, but I did know about the crash. I saw it on the news.”

  I don’t want to talk about it with her. In fact, I don’t want to talk about anything with her. We’re not friends.

  “When are you going to clean up my yard?”

  Her lips press into a flat line, and she closes her sketchbook. “I’m going there now, as a matter of fact.”

  “Good,” I reply, popping the chip in my mouth and chewing. When I swallow, I add, “I’d hate to call the police on you.”

  She ignores that last statement, instead sliding her pad into her purse and pulling out cash she then throws on the table.

  When she stands, I grin up at her. “Oh, and there’s bird shit all over my deck. That will need scrubbed.”

  “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 up her 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 have been 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 being an 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.

  Frowning, I disregard the comment about the seed. No way I can get that shit off the ground.

  I’m more than a little curious what he’s doing. Is he… bringing me something to drink? A chair to sit in while I disassemble the salt licks?

  It comes as no shock when he unfolds the chair with a snap of his arm and plops down in it. He sets the cooler next to him, pulls out a beer, and twists off the top.

  He hoists the bottle in mock salute. “Cheers. I thought I’d provide encouragement and direction.”