Page 1 of A Fowl Match

Chapter 1

Violet

IfI’velearnedanythingin my past twenty-eight years of existence, it’s the fact that I am a total klutz. You may be wondering, why did I think today would be any different? Your guess is as good as mine.

A gust of wind blows strands of hair all around my face, which is the last thing I need right now. I am trying my best to focus. I know thiscouldend badly. No—thiswillend badly.

Steady, Violet.

I try to peek over the towering stack of eclectic pots piled in my arms. The effort is almost pointless. I only have myself to blame. I bargained a deal for five dollars and a bouquet of flowers, knowing I had more than enough planting pots in my flower and garden shop. So, now I’m walking down the sidewalk balancing stone, plastic, and terracotta pots on my arms. They wobble with every painstaking step I take. I even could have gone home to grab a box to put them in. What can I say, bad decisions were made.

I tend to make them a lot.

A small opening between two of the pots leaves a tiny line of sight, almost as if I’m trying to look through a microscopic gap.

This was a horrible idea.

To be fair, I couldn’t refuse the deal Jane let them go for. She insisted I take some extras to help clear out her antique shop, The Hoarder’s Emporium, a business in our small town of Thornwood Valley. But the amount I took wouldn’t make a dent in reducing the stock. Her shop is overflowing with treasures and unique items. She’s a vagabond who travels the continental U.S. once a month in her 1980s VW van.

A stone pot on the top of the stack sparkles in the sun and reflects the perfect amount on my face. My vision becomes blurry with the sudden burst that renders my eyes utterly useless. All I can see are grainy spots. I slow my pace to a stop, hoping to clear my eyes before things go south.

When I think things can’t get any worse, they do.

My sneakers catch the joint of the sidewalk that dips down from the next square. The saying, “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back,” never felt true until today. Now, it's more like breaking my own back. Or maybe I’m entering a portal into a different realm, like the folklore suggests.

I tumble down. I squeeze the pots to my chest, hoping for the best.

As If I could fall gracefully.

Everything happens in slow motion. The pots go airborne like launched rockets. Some disappear to depths so far, it's hard to tell where they land. Each one a perfect symphony of fireworks shooting through the sky. My body continues downward. Every second that passes feels never-ending.

Stupid gravity.

As I become one with the ground, I hear a clunking noise and a deep grumble. I register it, but I have too much going on to wonder what that’s about. Thankfully, the remaining pots breakmy fall. Although, it would have felt better if I was carrying a stack of pillows or something that could have cushioned the blow.

My gratitude is short-lived. The pressure of my body weight makes them shatter into a million pieces, emitting a crunching noise loud enough for the whole town to hear.

This is great. I might die of embarrassment.

Thornwood Valley is not a big city. Anything that goes on here is bound to hit the local news. Especially considering there is a dedicated social media page for the town. This will be the latest gossip for a few days.

“What the hell?” a deep voice grumbles from a few feet ahead of me.

I try my best to make out the man whose voice rang through my ears—one that was not too pleasant, if I must admit. But I don’t recognize it. At this moment in time, I can’t trust my judgment either. The ringing in my ears is perpetual.

I lay on the ground in defeat covered in shambles of broken pieces. Tiny bits of color litter around me, looking like the inside of a kaleidoscope. A stunning tragedy of a rainbow.

A tall shadow towers over me. I can see the large inky outline on the sidewalk from the corner of my eye. Sighing, I look up from the ground hesitantly.

It’s time to accept my fate.

I peek over the battlefield, inching my chin higher and higher at small increments. I’m just prolonging my inevitable embarrassment. Hopefully, whoever is in front of me is someone I don’t recognize. The chances of that are slim, but not entirely impossible. A few tourists are already in town for hiking trips.

As I look up, I notice a pair of shiny black dress shoes; I can almost make out my reflection looking back at me. I keep my gaze moving upward along slate gray dress slacks. They are crisply ironed. Strong arms cross over a broad chest. I can’t helpbut feel a twinge of self-consciousness when my eyes meet his piercing stare. His cold blue gaze makes me feel exposed yet enthralled. They are the lightest blue, almost appearing to have a gray glimmer in the sunlight. His clean shaved face is angular and well-defined. His slightly crooked nose is the only part of his appearance that isn’tperfect. And still, the way that it suits his face makes him exude masculinity. It’s perfectly imperfect. Everything about him screams confidence. Or maybe it's self-assurance that radiates off him in waves.

The way he stands like a statue towering over me makes me feel so much shorter than I thought I was. I’m a modest five foot five and used to being one of the shortest people in a room. And yet I’ve never truly felt so small compared to someone else. It could be the fact that I’m lying on the ground. And he is standing. He’s gotta be at least six feet.

Speaking of lying on the ground, I need to get up! I’ve been staringwaytoo long. This thought makes me blush crimson.

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