Page 12 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
I should call her back and say no. I need to get the water off the kitchen floor. I can smell myself, so I know I need a shower.
But she reached out to you, Willow. She never does that. The least you can do is reciprocate.
Gah! I hate my inner self sometimes.
Against my better judgement, I text her my address, then survey my surroundings. I glance over at the wet/dry vac I bought. It’s supposed to suck up the standing water, but I have my doubts. First, anything involving electricity combined with water is never good. I don’t even trust the underwater lights in swimming pools. So, the idea of vacuuming water scares the ever-lovin’ crap out of me.
I got as far as taking it out of the box, but I haven’t plugged it in or moved it anywhere near the kitchen yet. Instead, I’ve thrown as many bath towels, blankets, and dirty clothes I could find on the floor to mop it up. P-Tink is picking up sopping towels from the floor and shaking them in her mouth to create random sprays of water, which she then tries to chase. There are so many times I wish I were a dog. If for no other reason than to be entertained by creating and chasing water sprays that I will never catch.
She takes a break to lap up water pooling between the articles of bedding and clothing. “Good girl, P-Tink. Just go ahead and get it all up while you’re at it,” I tell her. “That way I won’t have to vacuum.” She makes a wooing sound back at me. I pick up random wet things and wring them out in the sink, then throw them back on the floor to continue cleanup. There’s got to be two inches still in here.
How can one sink have so much water?
P-Tink’s ears perk up and she runs to the low windows in the living room to investigate; I follow.
“Just getting to Seattle, my ass.” A red convertible pulls to a stop, dangerously close to my front flower bed. Or what will be a flower bed once I plant flowers in it. Right now, it’s just dirt surrounded by brick. I open the front door and step onto the porch, P-Tink at the ready by my side. At least I think she’s at the ready. It occurs to me that I don’t really know if she will protect me from bad guys or not.
What I do know is that she loves everyone and everything at the hardware store. Outside of that, she doesn’t seem to appreciate strangers, big trucks, anyone wearing a Fedora, or the sound of flip-flops. So, the odds are in my favor here. Or maybe it’s just hard to tell.
The passenger door flings open and AshLynn emerges, large sunglasses covering her face, mid-riff halter-style top, and a flowy A-line skirt, looking like a modern-day slutty Grace Kelly.
“Willow!” she cries, opening her arms and skipping toward me with a wide smile on her face.
I’ve got half a mind to turn around to try and find this other Willow that she’s so happy to see. I let her hug me and ooh and ahh over the house and how good I look and how great it is to see me. Then she turns and motions toward the car. “Mason, come meet my sister!”
All I can see over the frame of the windshield is the top of a baseball cap. The driver’s side door opens, and Mason unfolds himself from the car, straightening to his full, impressive height. He comes toward us, measuring in at what must be six foot three inches tall. I’m five foot nine inches, and he towers over me.
He takes off his baseball cap and runs his hand through his tousled brown hair; bright brown eyes sparkle in my direction, and his scruffy salt-and-pepper jawline begs to be kissed. AshLynn grabs his hand and squeals with excitement.
“Mason Cartwright, meet my sister, Willow Brooks. Willow, this is my fiancé, Mason.”
A trill races through me as I shake Mason’s hand. His eyes widen at my touch, making me wonder if he feels it too.
Oh, Holy Hells Balls.
All I have to say is, it’s a damn good thing I don’t believe in love at first sight. ’Cause if I did, I’d be booty over bean in love with Mason Cartwright.
