I’m so sick of the constant anxiety and tension and stress—I don’t think I can take it anymore.
As if summoned by my defeatist thoughts, another car pulls up behind the first, and they both start honking, one after the other, a chorus of impatience.
Hysterical laughter gurgles up and bursts out of me.
ChapterTwo
Archer
“Let me call you back.” I stare out the windshield at the scene on the other side of the small parking lot.
His response is a click on the line and then dead air.
I grin down at my phone. I’ve always found Oliver’s lack of basic politeness amusing. It’s probably why our friendship has lasted this long—and at least half of why it started in the first place.
The smile turns into a wince when the man on the ground throws up—again.
Jacob Fox. He checked me in at Fox Cottages only a few hours ago. How did he get this drunk so quick?
The woman who has been half carrying, half supporting him on their laborious journey from behind the bar throws her head back and . . . is she laughing?
Surprise lifts my brows. This must be Finley Fox.
The car next to them honks. The one pulled up behind it honks too.
She’s doing her damned best, wrenching on Jacob’s arms in a futile attempt to drag him out of the way, but she’s laughing so hard he’s not budging. Not that she could do it on her own anyway. She’s half his size.
Oliver had texted me a blurry photo of her, taken from a distance. Her mouth was partially open, eyes half closed. It had been taken by one of Oliver’s buyers, someone he sent to approach her about selling the property. According to him, she had tried to run the poor guy over with her truck.
After that failure, Oliver had tried again, sending two more of his lackeys, but apparently Finley threatened them with a shotgun.
I slide out of my rental car. This isn’t how I want to introduce myself to Finley Fox, but maybe I can work it to my advantage. If I come to her rescue, maybe I’ll have a better shot than those who came before.
Besides, I can’t leave her like this.
“Need a hand?” I call out as I approach.
In the fading light, I get a better look at Finley Fox.
Her hair is dark, pulled back into a thick braid. Her eyes are lighter, harder to make out, maybe hazel, with faint shadows curved underneath. Her clothes are grubby, she has vomit on her shoes, and her skin is stretched with fatigue. But there is something in the curve of her jaw, the stubbornness in her chin, the set of her shoulders that sucks me in. I can’t look away.
“Oh, this is just perfect,” she grinds out, her voice full of exasperation.
I halt a few feet away, schooling my expression into a blank mask.
Does she know who I am? That I’m here at Oliver’s behest? How could she?
She continues before I can formulate any kind of response that won’t result in being maimed, shunned, or told off.
“No, please.” One hand flicks up and then flops down at her side. “Because this day hasn’t been awful enough, having a hot lumbersnack witness my mortification is really topping it off.”
Her words shoot a spark of surprise through me. “Did you just call me a . . . lumbersnack?” I ask, unable to keep the amazement from my voice.
I’m not a small-statured person. Most people find me somewhat intimidating at first. I’ve never been referred to as any kind of bite-size portion.
The person in the first car rolls down their window. “Can you get out of the way?”
“Mr. Morgan, is that you?” She squints at the vehicle. “Can’t you see I’ve got a little issue here?” She gestures with both hands at Jacob. “Have some sympathy or get out and give me a hand.”