Free Cheri on Top by Susan Donovan Page A

too.”
    Cherise shuddered, trying to shake off the image of how the vermin had actually touched her boot. She hated squirrels. She almost lost everything on her very first residential flip when squirrels chewed through brand-new electrical wiring and started an attic fire.
    Besides, they carried rabies. Ticks. Fleas. And God knew what else.
    Gathering her courage, she walked gingerly toward the rotting porch steps, keeping an eye on whatever else might be lurking in the overgrown mess.
    “Don’t be such a city girl,” Tater Wayne said, chuckling. “There’s always been critters and weeds and dirt out here. You just done forgot.” He smiled broadly at her, which caused his eyeball to go off on its pinball journey.
    Cherise carefully made her way up the stairs and onto the porch.
    “Here,” he said, shoving the flowers toward her.
    She grabbed them and smacked them against the side of her thigh, not bothering to hide her annoyance. Candy had been right. She’d always had this problem with Tater Wayne—the nicer she was to him the more he misinterpreted her kindness. The time had come to make things clear.
    “Please don’t bring me any more flowers, Tater.” At the risk of sounding snippy, Cherise decided honesty was the approach. “I like you as a friend, but I don’t have any interest in you romantically.”
    Tater’s eye began to ricochet at double speed. “Oh,” he said, his work boots shuffling in the crunchy leaves. “Well now, I figured as much. Anyway, these ain’t from me. They was here when I showed up to clean the gutters.”
    “What?” Cherise bent her elbow to examine the mixed bouquet and saw it was wrapped in florist paper, a dead giveaway that Tater hadn’t raided someone’s garden to win her affection. She put her nose down into the delicate pink roses, daisies, baby’s breath, and ferns. Cherise frowned and looked up at Tater once more. “So who are they from, then?”
    He shrugged. “Heckifiknow. I best be getting back to work ’cause Garland pays me by the job and I still gotta run some urns for Viv. You know, Spickler’s Hardware and the post office.”
    Cherise smiled. “Ah. Err-ands .”
    “That’s what I said. Urns. ” He looked at her suspiciously. “You don’t even talk normal these days.” With that, Tater Wayne jumped off the sagging porch and headed toward a tall aluminum ladder he’d propped against the far side of the house.
    “Hey, thanks for all your hard work,” she called after him.
    He gave her a salute and a smile.
    Cherise tucked the flowers under her arm and cautiously stepped over the threshold. Immediately, her nostrils were assaulted by the presence of mildew. One quick glance around the living room and Cherise was certain that everything made of fabric would have to go—the rugs, the couch, the curtains, the kitchen chair cushions.
    She went through the room and opened every window that wasn’t stuck, relieved that the fresh spring air helped her eyes to stop watering. A good sweeping up, my ass, she thought. Well, at least there was no wallpaper or wall-to-wall carpet to be dealt with, and the wood floors and trim could be scrubbed back to life with oil soap. Anything else would sparkle after some vinegar and elbow grease. A little fresh paint probably wouldn’t hurt, either. Of course, paying for a cleaning service was out of the question, and how she’d accomplish all this scrubbing and sparkling while running a daily newspaper she had no idea.
    Her mind snapped back to the editorial meeting that morning. Granddaddy hadn’t even bothered to show up, leaving Cherise to sit at the head of the conference table pretending to follow along as Jim Taggert discussed the day’s “news hole,” and Mimi ranted about the FBI’s tight-lipped media relations policy and how Carlotta Smoot McCoy refused to give an interview.
    “The lady is crazier than a sprayed roach,” Mimi had said. “She went off on me about how I’d never lost a sister and