No Perfect Princess by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue Read Free Book Online Page A

wondered why Margaux’s sarcasm was so appealing? “What’s up?”
    “My question exactly. I expected you here a few hours ago.”
    I exhaled, our unwritten version of an apology. “I had a quick side trip to take first.” Then the nonstop trouser wood to deal with because of it . “I just passed Oasis Farms. And before you ask, they’re closed. No camel milk chocolate for you tonight.” She loved that stuff!
    Her chuckle warmed the line. “I stocked up last week. Oh, and I learned both the farm’s calves got sold.”
    “Thank God.”
    “Oh, come on.”
    “No comment.”
    “A couple of camels would’ve been fun to have around!”
    “ No comment .”
    She capitulated with a playfully huffed, “Fine. Just get your ass here safely. Good to know you’re close. Dinner’s almost ready.”
    “Yesssss.” I could practically smell her fried chicken and homemade apple sauce through the line. It was my favorite meal, always served the first night I came home to help with the yearly paperwork.
    “See you soon, then.”
    “Mom?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Have I mentioned how much I love you?”
    She laughed again, this time adding a little psshh . “That’s your stomach talking, baby bear, but I’ll take it while I can get it.”
    I hung up without saying goodbye, with the full knowledge of fueling her laughter more. I’d hated “baby bear” even when I was one, but it’d remained her private way of ribbing me through the years. I grinned and cranked up the radio. Nothing like a little Simon and Garfunkel to add a touch of hipster-approved perfection to the moment.
    Home, where my thought’s escaping; home, where my music’s playing…
    The steering wheel turned into my drum. Felt a lot better than a punching bag. I let down the window, inviting air that added a brisk snare to my drum, pine and oak and the smoky undertones unique to nighttime in the mountains. Shock of shocks, I managed a full breath that wasn’t mostly stress. And even a few more.
    Left clicker on, along with the headlights, as afternoon blended to twilight. I swung the truck through the still-open gate, its two halves splitting up one word welded into the wrought iron:
    PEAR  -----  SON’S
    Just beyond the gates was the farm’s first grove, many branches dipped low by brave off-season apples. Thirty feet in, a directional sign told stores and restaurants to veer right for bulk deliveries. Fifty feet later, another guided the public to the left for apple picking, hay rides, and the petting zoo. Just beyond that, I passed the darkened gift shop before turning down a smaller road through the groves, toward the house I grew up in.
    Another deep breath. As slowly, surely, I began to feel normal again.
    What was that famous expression, about conclusions belonging to the stupid? There wasn’t one? Damn time someone changed that. They could use me as the world’s first and best justification.
    A grunt and growl combo’ed their way through my teeth as I slammed on the brakes. The asshole in the middle of the road didn’t offer many more options. He didn’t flinch as the truck screeched, continuing to scroll messages on his phone.
    I shifted into park, shoved open the door, and slammed my left boot to the step, swinging upward. With one elbow braced to the roof and the other atop the open door, I gave myself a silent command.
    Breathe.
    Breathe.
    Was I really doing just that, calmly and normally, a minute ago?
    Calm wasn’t a remote option now.
    Calm and Declan Pearson would never belong in the same thought for me. Ever.
    He lifted his head, showing threads of gray through his trend-conscious hair and well-trimmed beard. I was almost surprised he’d decided to go natural, until realizing he’d likely figured a way to get traction out of the “distinguished guy” vibe. Declan didn’t make a move in his life without it serving one higher purpose. Himself.
    “Welcome home, Michael.” A quick sweep of his stare took in what he could see of