Page 30 of The County Line (Whitewood Creek Farm #2)

“You can’t be serious?”?? I demand.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” my landlord responds.

Meanwhile, I want to scream.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“There’s a motel in town that you can check into, assuming that they have availability,” my landlord offers with an indifferent shrug. “And, of course, if you have any family nearby, you might consider staying with them until the fumigation is complete.”

“Are you kidding me?” I snap, my voice rising to a level I normally wouldn’t take. “I have to shell out my own money for a motel because my neighbors brought bed bugs back from some sketchy hotel in Kansas?”

He shrugs again, like this is somehow my problem and not his.

Meanwhile, the duplex I live in— his property—is crawling with tiny bugs I didn’t have anything to do with.

I fold my arms tightly across my chest as my skin starts to itch on instinct, the phantom sensation of bugs crawling on me is making it impossible to stand still and now I’m spiraling.

All my clothes, my belongings— my life —are locked behind that large green door, the one that Regan and I painted together just six weeks ago when I first moved in.

Now it’s April, still way too cold for me to even consider sleeping in my car tonight, and I don’t know how long this mess will take to fix.

Honestly, I’m not even sure I want to go back into that house once they say it’s clear. The thought of it makes my stomach churn.

My childhood home in the trailer park had bed bugs once when I was growing up and it was a nightmare my father refused to deal with until Maverick and I were called into the principal’s office at school because of the bite marks that covered our skin for weeks.

He punished us for not covering the marks up better by making us sleep without a blanket during the coldest time of the winter.

It was a lesson we both learned to never repeat.

“How long is this going to take, and what’s the process?” I ask, trying to keep the panic from leaking into my voice. If I know the plan, maybe I’ll feel a little better.

“We’ve hired a pest control company,” he explains, as if that will somehow calm me down.

“They’ll start with a steam treatment and then apply an insecticide.

From what we can tell, the infestation is mostly localized to your neighbor’s unit, but we can’t take any chances of it spreading.

You won’t be allowed inside until we’re certain your unit is also clear.

The company will enter in full protective gear, apply the treatments, vacuum, inspect every surface, and report back on the extent of the problem.

The whole process will take about three weeks. ”

“Three weeks?” I shriek because I know I can’t afford to pay for a motel for that long.

I just started my new job and though I’ve been trying to save as much as possible from my paychecks, I don’t have three weeks’ worth of motel money to shell out and I damn sure don’t want to use my ten thousand dollar bonus for a problem I didn’t cause.

My jaw tightens as I glare at him, trying to process what my life is going to look like for the next twenty-one days.

He nods grimly, finally looking a little remorseful. “Sorry.” And then he walks off, leaving me with more problems than I thought were possible. And that’s saying a lot coming from a woman who’s had her share of issues in just twenty-eight years of life.

Dammit.

I look down at my police uniform, there’s a large coffee stain on the shirt.

My dark black hair is down and loose on my shoulders because my hair tie broke when I was trying to pull it up today, and I’m sure I smell like sweat and death.

I feel disgusting and I have nowhere to go to take a shower or sleep.

Stay with your family.

I scoff thinking about him making that suggestion like it’s an easy and available option. The only people who’ve ever felt like family are the Marshalls and I can’t exactly call Colt, the man who fingered me two days ago, cracked open my heart and wrecked me to pieces as I came apart in his hands.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him, the massive bulge in his pants, the tattooed knuckles I watched slide in and out of me while he swallowed my moans and made me come. And all the things I should have said and done differently in that moment.

I pull out my phone anyways, swallowing my pride and hoping that he’s down by the creek working on his house and not within earshot of the conversation I have to have. “Hey Regan.”

“Hey Molly! Is everything ok?” her cheerful voice comes through the phone. I check the time, noting that it’s already seven o’clock in the evening.

“Yes, well no, not really. Guess my new neighbors aren’t just recluses who keep to their selves. Apparently, they like to travel all around the country and happened to bring a case of bed bugs home with them from Kansas.”

“Shut up!”

“Yeah, my luck couldn’t be worse. I’m banished from my unit for what sounds like will be three weeks if they determine the bugs have made their way next door. Could be less though, I’m hoping it’s mostly contained on their side.”

“You need a place to stay? Come on over here. We have space,” she offers easily.

My heart squeezes at how generous she is. I didn’t even have to ask, and she was already offering. It’s friends like that who see a need and fill it without making you feel any shame. And that’s why they Marshalls have always felt like family.

Colt’s words come back to me instantly. You’re a part of our family too, Molly. You know that, right?

“Oh, actually, the only room that’s free right now is Colt’s old room. Are you okay with sleeping in there? Or you can sleep on any of the couches that are downstairs, but dad might be up watching the news late,” she says.

I freeze for a second, weighing my response, then force myself to recover quickly. I can’t act weird about sleeping in Colt’s old room—if I do, Regan might start asking questions, and I’m not ready to answer them.

Guilt creeps in anyway. Lying to her—one of my closest, and honestly, one of my only friends left in this town—feels like a betrayal.

Except it’s not a lie. Not really. I’m just… not ready to tell her the truth. Not about what happened. And definitely not about the fact that it’s happened twice now.

“Colt’s room is fine,” I hurry out, hoping I didn’t pause for too long.

“Okay, cool. Not sure when the last time the sheets were changed, though. I’m down at the egg farm helping Cash so if you get there before me, just toss them in the laundry with anything else that you need washed, okay?”

“Sure, no problem. Oh, and do you mind if I borrow a t-shirt? I’m still in my uniform and everything’s locked inside.”

“Sure! Take whatever you want. See you tonight. Heads-up, though—it looks like a storm’s rolling in, so I might not be able to catch up with you until the morning. We’re trying to get everything prepped for hurricane-force winds and make sure the hens are all taken care of.”

“Talk soon.”

The line goes dead, and I stare at my phone for a second before heading to my car, a nagging sense of something missing gnawing at me.

Oh, right—my whole damn life that’s stuck back in my home.

I peel out of the parking lot and take the back road to Whitewood Creek Farm, making record time.

Relief floods me when I see Cash’s car isn’t in the driveway and neither is Colt’s.

He’s probably busy helping with storm prep then hunkering down for the night.

The guilt hits hard and fast, like it always does.

We used to tackle things like this together when we were kids, but today?

My body’s screaming from the back-to-back shifts on parole duty, and my head’s still spinning from the mess with my duplex.

The front door is unlocked, so I let myself in, calling out to avoid catching anyone off guard. “Mr. Marshall? Anyone here? It’s Molly Patrick.”

Silence.

I step into the kitchen, and there he is, sitting at the dining table with his phone blasting some video loud enough to shake the windows. He looks up, catching my eye without even being startled as if he’d expected me to waltz in here after so many years apart.

“Molly Patrick,” his grin widens. “What a nice surprise. Come on in!”

I smile at the older gentleman who’s always felt more like a father to me than my own ever did. Walking around the table, I give him a hug before pulling out a chair to sit beside him.

All I really want right now is a long, hot shower—to scrub every inch of my skin and banish the crawling feeling that the bed bugs have left behind.

It’s irrational, I know, but the itch feels like it’s under my skin.

But I haven’t seen Kent Marshall in a decade, and here he is, offering me a place to stay without a single string attached.

That kind of kindness deserves my time and focus.

“It’s great to see you. What brings you by? Here to see Regan?” he asks gently.

“Unfortunately, bed bugs.”

His brow arches before he lets out a booming laugh that echoes throughout the house. “Bed bugs? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I sigh. “I wish I was. My neighbors brought them home from their travels, and with our walls being so thin, the landlord’s forcing us out while they fumigate. He wants to make sure the infestation hasn’t spread to the whole building.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate for you but fortunate for us,” he says, his smile warm enough to ease some of the tension in my chest. “At least it means we get to have you staying with us for a while.”

Kent Marshall has always been a reminder of what goodness looks like—pure, uncomplicated, generous and expecting nothing in return. It’s a rare quality and one I didn’t grow up around.