The morning sun poured like gold syrup across the porch, dappling the wooden floorboards where Joanne stood on a small stool, hammer in hand, trying to hang the horseshoe Patrick had gifted them at the Rockchapel reception.
She'd asked Jeffrey to do it an hour ago, but he was glued to his laptop, firing off emails with the intensity of a man sealing billion-dollar mergers—though, in reality, he was just confirming supply chain logistics for his company. Still, the way he was zoned in, you'd think the stock market would collapse if he blinked.
She smiled to herself. Tunnel-brained. That's what she called it when he got like this. There could be a thunderstorm, an alien invasion, or a marching band parading through their living room, and Jeffrey wouldn't notice unless it was BCC'd to his inbox.
