Page 1 of Gifts

Prologue

Five O’clock

Keelie

I’m pissed.

Phase four thousand, three hundred and eighty-nine of the refurb is going to shit. I had the front stoop torn off. Jimbo started with the exterior and, since he’s only working in his free time, I’ll be lucky if it’s done by the time Knox starts high school.

Just like with all previous phases, I blame this one on you, too. If I have to live in the country, my house is going to look like a Christmas card, dammit.

Knox was accepted into the gifted program. You and I would argue about this. You wouldn’t give a shit that this is my area of expertise and would be smug as hell even though I feel he should wait until middle school for honors courses. I don’t like him being pulled out of class even though I know he’ll love it, but I caved like I have on so many things.

Saylor, on the other hand, is just now starting to read. I know this is my territory and I should be all over that, but my patience is shit. I don’t have the energy to fight her.

Did I mention we have three new babies? I can barely get Saylor in the house long enough to work on her reading on a good day. All she wants to do is play with them. They make her so happy. I should still be pissed at you about the goats, but I just can’t be anymore. Not when I see Saylor love them the way she does.

It’s Saturday.

I know I complain every week, but I hate Saturdays.

Today is even worse.

I haven’t mentioned this, but Stephie has been on my ass for months to get on with shit. I’ve held her off again and again, but she was so annoying, I finally gave in.

I have a date.

Tonight.

At five o’clock.

Am I that old that I have to go on a date at five o’clock? Thirty-five is not old. Who the hell is she fixing me up with that wants to go on a date at five o’clock? I know it’s been forever since I’ve been on a date, but five o’clock is for senior citizens—not women in their mid-thirties.

I’ve decided five o’clock dates piss me off, too. Just for that, I didn’t shave my legs.

Or anything else for that matter.

Not that I plan on opening my legs. Hell, I’ll probably be home by seven-thirty. And who wants to have sex with someone who has to go on a date at five o’clock? Five o’clock does not say stamina. Five o’clock screams early-bird special.

But here I am, in the middle of the afternoon, getting ready to go on a date for the first time in fucking years.

Could I be more pissed?

Yeah, I know the answer to that.

I should be plucking my eyebrows, not texting.

I’m fucking sick of dreading Saturdays.

I hate you.

I press send and toss my phone to the counter. What the hell is wrong with me? Looking at my reflection, I wait for it. I know it’s coming—just like it does every time.

There it is.

I don’t know why, but I pick up my phone and read the response. The same response I’ve gotten ever since I started this nonsense. I don’t even think it’s helping.

Undeliverable.

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