Chapter 8We dropped off Stella at the mansion, then drove another ten miles to Zeb’s place. It was a small house out in the middle of nowhere, the wood painted sunflower yellow, a brick chimney, green shutters, a small flower garden up front. “What, no white picket fence?” I asked, stepping up the walkway.
He grabbed me and pulled me into him. “That a dream of yours, Trip? House with a white picket fence?” He kissed me, long and hard and soul-shivering deep.
“I thought about it,” I admitted, coming up for air. “But does anyone even have those anymore?”
He laughed and took my hand, walking me to a shed in the back. He opened the door, great stacks of wood piled to the side. “Picket slats, boss,” he said. “Next on my list.”
And that soul-shiver went all magnum eruption. “Seems like you g
