Tarantulas in Colorado go on a deadly quest for love and money in this romantic romance.
It’s a hot, muggy July day. The temperature is hovering somewhere over 90 degrees. People are rushing around like they are trying to get somewhere, a little sweat is running down their faces. The humidity in the air is so thick, it’s hard to breathe. I hear an echo of someone talking, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. I’m in downtown Boulder, in front of my house, on the hill. I’ve been out walking the streets here for over an hour, and it seems like longer, but I’ve been told by my husband that it’s time to go back inside. He’s saying it to me, but I can’t hear him clearly, and so I walk around the block, and then return home.
There’s a black box on the outside of my front door. I don’t know what it is, but I’m not happy about it. I’m tired of being out and about. I can’t wait until it’s time to leave. We live in a city where nothing lasts past the afternoon, and so I’m not used to this kind of heat and humidity. I’m in my sweatpants and a tight T-shirt, not having the energy to do much of anything outside. I’m trying to get the bugs out of my house. I’m struggling to keep the place clean. It’s bad enough trying to deal with them from my front porch. You can’t open your door when there’s a swarm of mosquitoes that just won’t leave.
I’m in the middle of the dirt road that leads to my back door when a car pulls up behind me and I turn around. It’s John. He’s driving a bright red
