Page 4 of Knot So Social

My cuckoo clock chimes in the kitchen, telling me the stock market’s about to open. “Hear that, Mr Shares?” I force a smile. “Time to buy more shares.”

I shake my head at my own joke as I limp back up the hallway. My dog’s name makes the best wisecrack for a woman who gives financial self-help advice, but he also lives up to the other meaning of the word: he shares everything with me. Helps keep the nightmares at bay.

Even if I’m housebound and can’t take him for walks. Dogs are good like that. People? Not so much.

I settle in at my desk and get to work scanning the stock markets and assessing my portfolio. A niggling voice in the back of my head says I need to boost my dividends producing portfolio. Expenses are rising, and my own security costs bucketloads. Necessary steps to ensure I’m never taken advantage of again.

If I go down that mental garden path, I’ll end up huddling on the floor again. So I check my thoughts by putting the concern on a sticky note and setting it in my diary to review tomorrow. Truth is, I’m wealthy enough not to worry about money, but it’s become a habit after working so hard to climb out of the hole those assholes left me in.

Mr Shares wants to go out after his meal, so I take a quick break for breakfast, eating at a small table with views over the expansive backyard. The breakfast bagel’s halfway to my mouth when I spy a real problem.

About a foot tall and glossy red, the squirrel climbs down my fence and pokes its nose into a camelia bush. This side of the fence. My heart sputters.

“Oh, no,” I whisper, rising. My hip locks up and I curse as I stumble. I must get to the door before—

The golden retriever spots the squirrel and lets out a ferocious bark. He bounds across the yard, silken hair flying out behind him in rippling waves.

“Hey!” I cry, ambling toward the door while gripping my throbbing side. “Stop!”

His good boy persona doesn’t exist in the face of squirrels. The oversized rodent bolts for the fence, plumed tail waving like a red flag my dog can’t resist. Chattering with rage, the critter bounds up the bricks and disappears over the wall.

Mr Shares growls, barreling full tilt at the fence. My breath catches as he flies upward, toward the wall I had raised two feet higher—the one backing onto the neighbor’s property, the place with the awful guard dogs.

My dog’s paws catch on the fence top, and for a moment he scrabbles for grip before hauling himself up over the lip and vanishing from sight.

I throw open the sliding door and hobble out under the covered patio. But my feet won’t step out onto the lawn. A frustrated sob catches in my throat as my body rebels, locking up like I’m made of stone.

Nothing can force me out into that dangerous open ground—not even to save my best friend.

As I stand there, shaking with fear, snarls and yelps erupt on the other side of the fence.

Chapter two

Alessandro

My Italian Mammina’s voice hums like busy dragonfly wings in my ears. “Alessandro, caro. When are you going to get married? All mie amiche already have grandchildren. You went to the States to work, but what do you have to show? Come home already.”

I shake my head and switch the phone to my other ear, since this one’s sweating. Literally being talked off because her friends have grandbabies. “Mamma—”

“No! don’t you mamma me! I miss you.”

I chuckle and pull items out of my toolbox, lining them up on my workbench, ready to use whenever this call finally ends. “I miss you too. But things are going well—”

“You met a signora?” Her tone pitches with hopefulness.

I scratch my head. “Not yet, mamma.”

She clicks her tongue in frustration, not seeming to understand that life exists outside of finding a partner and procreating.

It’s true I don’t have much to show for two years. A steady client list for my lawnmowing business, yes. But friends and a less tangible inner satisfaction? Not so much.

As mamma drones on about my aunts and her circle of middle-aged amiche, I lean on the shed doorframe and stare out at the estate. The inground pool across the walkway glimmers in the afternoon light. It took me hours to clean all the stone paving, deck chairs, and the tiki bar after yesterday’s party. The waterfall cascading down a series of rocks before reaching the swimming area seems loud in the silence, the owners probably still nursing hangovers inside their three-story manor.

Sweat trickles down my spine and I reach over to turn on the big industrial fan, hoping to get some air movement inside the storage shed. My bed sits in the corner, a mattress thrown on top of a low shelf and covered in mosquito netting. A far cry from the luxury outside the door, but at least I have a base.

Most importantly, maintaining the Warkow’s pool means I can use this workshop and keep all my lawnmowing gear inside, including my truck and trailer. Minimal rent, plenty of space, that’s everyone’s dream, right? Even if it’s all a bit quiet.

“Are you listening, Alessandro?”