Kneading to Die Read Online Free PDF Page A

Weimaraner bounded into her path. She halted, feinting to the right to avoid being knocked over.
    If her reflexes had been slower, she would’ve ended up sprawled in the grass, or worse. She yanked her earbuds out, automatically reaching up to pat the overly friendly dog who was now standing on his hind legs trying to lick her to death.
    â€œDuncan! For Christ’s sake.” A man jogged across the grass. He wore a Yankees baseball cap backward, over longish, dirty blond hair, and a tank top, which definitely proved he had muscles. Tan, unshaven, dark glasses. From what she could see, he was very cute. Although she didn’t like people who couldn’t control their dogs. And she wasn’t wild about Yankees fans.
    He reached her, panting slightly, and tugged the dog’s collar to make him sit. “Bad dog, Duncan. You don’t run off like that. I’m very sorry,” he said, casting an appraising glance over her. Stan suddenly felt very self-conscious. And sweaty. “Are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine,” she said, reaching up to adjust her ponytail. “No problem. He’s very sweet, aren’t you, Duncan?”
    Duncan immediately pounced on her again, and this time she did lose her balance. His owner grabbed her arm to steady her. The dog seemed to weigh twice what she did.
    â€œDuncan! I said, ‘Sit,’” he commanded. When the dog obliged, tongue lolling, he rolled his eyes. “Sorry again. I’m Jake McGee.” He still held her arm.
    â€œStan Connor,” she said, with a pointed look at his hand. He grinned and let her go, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on the brim of his cap. He had cool eyes, too. Catlike, with brown and gold and green all vying for dominance. Stan uncapped her water bottle and took a swig. She ordered herself to stop admiring. Not appropriate.
    â€œStan, huh?” he said. “You don’t look like a Stan. The last Stan I knew was fifty-eight, bald and fat.”
    She almost spit her water trying not to laugh. “Well, maybe this will change your mental image of all future Stans. It was nice meeting you.” With one last pet for Duncan, Stan turned and started to jog again.
    A minute later, Jake McGee fell into step beside her; Duncan obediently ran after them both. “Do you live around here, Stan?” he asked, drawing her name out on his tongue.
    Stan glanced at him and kept the slow jog pace. “I just moved in yesterday,” she said.
    â€œAh. The green house.” Jake snapped his fingers. “I saw you with the moving truck, but you look different.”
    â€œYou mean sweaty.”
    Jake laughed. “I didn’t mean that. I think it’s the hair. It was down and now it’s in a ponytail.”
    â€œEasier to run with,” she said. Why was he noticing her hair?
    â€œAre you gonna keep this pace up?” Jake asked.
    â€œI hope not. I am out for a run, after all.”
    â€œI thought so,” he said, sighing. “I’m going to have to leave you to it. It was nice meeting you, Stan.”
    Something about the way he said her name gave her a warm feeling in her belly. She kicked up her speed. “You both, too.” She plugged her music back into her ears. After she’d gotten halfway around the circle, she turned back once. Jake and Duncan were no longer in sight.
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    It took her a half hour to do a three-mile run. Not a bad pace, considering she couldn’t remember when she’d actually run last. She showered and was on her way to the back porch with an iced coffee, preparing to plot out the rest of her day, when her doorbell rang.
    She reversed direction and headed to the front door. Maybe it was someone with more sweets.
    It wasn’t. The woman with the long white hair stood on her porch, a straw hat like Ray Mackey’s perched on top of her head. Still not smiling. Piercing gray eyes studied Stan and the space behind her.