Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28026 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
But as I sit on the porch, savoring my peace, a familiar hatchback zooms up the curves and screeches to a halt right in front of the cabin. To my horror, the door flies open and out steps my ex-wife, clad in leggings and a fur coat. A hat is smashed down on her head, but I see long golden tresses trailing down her back, and what do you know, but she circles around and heads to the trunk of the car before pulling out a suitcase.
What the fuck? This is my territory. That bitch can’t be here.
Even worse, Pamela’s unloading a mountain of luggage. There are at least five vanity cases piled high on the snowy ground, emblazoned with Louis Vuitton logos, not to mention some Gucci and Prada thrown in. Yes, that bitch bought her traveling cases with my money, and now it looks like she’s showed up for an unexpected vacation under my roof.
I slam my mug down for the second time, hot coffee spilling over my fingers, but I don’t notice because I’m out the door in a flash. No fucking way is this happening.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I bellow, my deep voice echoing in the forest. Hell, some snow even drops off the branches of nearby trees, my voice is so fucking loud.
Pamela looks up from getting something from the trunk.
“Oh, funny seeing you here, Christian,” she says in an innocent tone, her red lips turned up in a sneer. “I thought you’d be at the hotel working. The way you always are.”
“No, I’m not at the hotel,” I snarl, my hand gripping into fists at my sides. “Put that shit back into the trunk,” I bark. “This is my property. Leave, before I call the cops.”
“This isn’t your property,” Pamela sing-songs, ignoring me as she unloads some other miscellaneous items. “This is property that’s subject to an ongoing case in family court, and therefore, I’m going to stake my claim.”
I stare at her, anger filling my veins.
“Stake your claim? What the hell does that mean? This isn’t the Wild West. Get your shit and get off my property.”
Pamela reaches for her purse before slamming the trunk closed with an emphatic thunk and turning to me. I can see a whisper of fine lines bracketing her eyes and mouth, as well as a subtle growth of silver at her temples. Yes, my dear ex is no longer fully blonde. She’s fading into crone-hood, and the age is beginning to show. Still, Pamela’s a gorgeous woman and sneers at me again.
“It means possession is nine-tenths of the law, and I’m going to live here to stake my claim.”
I stare at her with utter horror.
“Live here? Are you fucking kidding me? No fucking way! This is a one-bedroom cabin and there’s no room for you and your shit. Fucking hell this is happening! This is my property so fucking leave!”
Pamela ignores me, grabbing the handle of a roller bag and wheeling it up the path.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she sings again. “Come on, Emily. Get your stuff and follow me.”
I blink, astonished at the woman’s temerity. Pamela has the guts to show up to a remote cabin in the woods on a snowy day, and announce that she’s taking up residence? Who made her queen? What the fuck is this possession is nine-tenths of the law thing, anyways? This isn’t the Dark Ages where property was presumed to be yours if you inhabited it. This is the fucking twenty-first century, and people don’t “stake” their claims like pioneers.
But then a small voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Hi Christian,” it murmurs to my left. “It’s nice to see you again.”
I whirl around and am faced with a second figure. My eyes blink, astonished, because who the fuck is this? It’s a young woman I’ve never met before, and she’s absolutely gorgeous. She’s dressed like Pamela in leggings and a short coat, but that’s where the similarity ends. Whereas Pamela is thin and lithe, this woman is curvy. Her thighs are thick, her hips wide, and if I had to guess, her breasts are big beneath the puffy jacket. Plus, her face is that of an angel. Big blue eyes top a delicate ski-slope nose, and a plush, pouty mouth smiles tentatively at me. Long blonde hair flows from beneath a woolen beanie, and I blink again.
“Who the fuck are you?” I growl, suddenly aware of an uncomfortable tightness in my pants.
The young woman laughs nervously, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her coat.
“Emily,” she says. “Remember? Pamela’s daughter. We’ve met before.”
I blink again, still trying to process. The fact is that I forgot my ex had a daughter because by the time we married, Emily was already at boarding school. Then, she graduated from high school and started working, although I have no idea what this woman does for a job. Modeling? Acting? Something to capitalize on her breathtaking beauty, definitely.