This rain ain’t going anywhere.
If anything, it thickens and then turns into a downpour that rattles the gutters and turns the yard into mud. The weather reported last night suggested that there could be another downpour. But, for once, I was trying to be optimistic and hoped for a best case scenario of sun, blue skies, and perfect tree felling weather. That’ll teach me to see the sunny side of life, that’s for sure.
“Damn it,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “Today of all days. Just my fucking luck.”
Racer lifts his head from the foot, ears perked, like he’s waiting for me to fix it.
“Can’t work in this slop,” I tell him. “The trees will be slick as hell. One wrong cut and I’m the one going down.”
Racer huffs and flops back down.
“You and me both, boy,” I grumble.
I stretch, feeling the pull in my shoulders from yesterday’s felling. That hemlock came down clean—niceand satisfying as always.
But today? Nothing.
No saw, no sweat, no progress.
Just waiting for the sky to clear.
Irritating doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I haul my ass to the kitchen and brew coffee, black and hot, and stand at the window watching sheets of water blur the tree line. I could tinker in the shed, sharpen tools, but that’s busywork. Notrealwork.
Town it is, then.
My groceries are low anyway. Might as well stock up while I’m grounded. And then, when the rain goes and the skies clear up, I’ll be good to absolutely smash it without having to factor in a trip to pick up food.
Hey, maybe this whole optimism thing ain’t so bad?
I pull on jeans, a flannel over a tee, my boots still caked from yesterday. Racer whines at the door, hoping for a trip with me. But I think my friend needs to sit this one out and catch up on some beauty sleep.
“Stay,” I say. “You’d hate the truck in this.”
I frown as Racer pads back to his bed, clearly unimpressed. But, hey, he’ll thank me later when he’s running around full of energy.
The drive in is slow—roads slick, wipers slapping. Town’s quiet, folks hunkered down and doing whatever people do on days like this.
I park outside Peplinska’s Grocery, the old clapboard store with its faded sign and creaky screen door. Mr. and Mrs. Peplinska have run it forever—good people, fair prices, no nonsense. They’re the kind of folk that truly keep a place like this respectable and honest. I wouldn’t hear a word said against them.
I grab a basket, shake the rain off my hat, and step inside. Smells like fresh bread and coffee grounds. A few locals milling about, chatting over the weather as they pick out their goods.
I head for produce first.
Need bananas—a great source of potassium for me, and Racer loves ‘em mashed in his kibble, the spoiled mutt. But as I round the corner, there he is.
“Everywhere I turn…” I whisper under my breath as I look at Taron, his juicy backside pointing in my direction.
Damn, he’s got one hell of an ass on him.
What I’d give to…
Shut up, man. Get a grip.
Taron’s suddenly bent over the display, red jacket dripping a little puddle on the floor, backpack slung over one arm. Hishair’s damp, curling at the ends, and those jeans hug his curves in a way that hits me low and hard.
Stop staring.