Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
At this, I hug her again. Because finally the fear of the unknown is washing over me and I need to hold on to her, and it looks like she needs to hold on to me too. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
I shake my head, my eyes stinging. “No, absolutely n-not.”
She hiccups. “It is.”
“No.”
“First, like an idiot, I don’t stop you from writing to a fucking c-convict. Then I tell you it’s okay to g-go see him and then you go see him and he breaks your heart and makes you feel bad about yourself. And I know you, Ri. I know you don’t show pain and you never cry and you’re always strong. But that a-asshole got to you. And I—”
I scrunch my eyes closed, keeping my tears at bay. “No, it was me. I went looking for him that night after you fell asleep on the couch. It’s my fault.”
She leans away from me then, her face blotched. “You went looking for him?”
I nod, my cheeks burning in shame.
“But what… What happened? How did you…”
Her questions make me realize that we have an audience. There’s a man standing a few feet away from me that I’ve never seen before. He’s as tall and broad as the rest of the Graysons, but he’s got them beat in the muscle mass. His neck alone looks thicker and more corded than those of the three men I’ve met here.
I realize that when people say burly, he is what they’re talking about. Also mean. It’s probably due to that wicked scar running down the side of his face. From the top of his forehead all the way to the bottom of his left jaw, going through his thick dark eyebrow and both his lips.
But mean can be pretty, too, can’t it?
And he has to be the prettiest man I’ve ever seen. His eyes are a glimmering green, and those scarred lips are thick and plush. He has a killer jawline and the most stunning cheekbones I’ve ever seen on a man. Or rather, a cowboy. Given he has a Stetson on his head and is wearing a plaid shirt with cowboy boots.
I have no idea who he is or why he’s staring at my best friend with a focus that sends chills down my spine. I’m about to break the hug and push Peyton behind me so I can figure out what’s happening, but then my gaze falls on someone behind the stranger and I freeze.
Because there he is, the man who brought me here.
Looking the way he did eight years ago.
I don’t know how I know this for sure, but I do. Maybe he wasn’t as built and thickly muscled as he is now, but I bet this is exactly what he looked like before he got put away. When he was just a cowboy, all cocky and confident, and not hardened by prison.
He has on a washed-out denim shirt that clings to his broad shoulders like water clung to his bare chest whenever he got to go swimming. The sleeves are folded up to his elbows, displaying his corded forearms that always made sure I stayed safe while we rode. His thighs are encased in a darker-colored denim that fits him so well I can practically see the thighs that hugged mine for the past week. I can practically feel them rustling against mine right now.
But that’s not what makes my heart skip a beat, several beats, actually.
It’s that brown-colored Stetson on his head, sitting with the brim tipped low. Pair that with his rugged boots so big that I’m sure I could fit both my feet in one of them, and he has to be the handsomest cowboy I’ve ever seen. He’s not classically pretty like the other guy, but he has this roughness about him that I want to rub up against. Scrape along and come out with black-and-blue bruises.
Well, I did, didn’t I? And now he’s brought my best friend here.
“You,” I begin, gathering myself and moving away from Peyton, “brought her here.”
At my words, his eyes snap back up to mine. And I realize that while I’m seeing him for the first time like he was before I met him, he’s probably meeting me for the first time too. As Reverie. The girl who always wears loose hoodies that hide all her curves and let her live a safe life. Although the hoodie I’m wearing is not that loose or large, but I’m guessing he gets the picture. Because his jaw clenches and something like anger passes through his features.
Well, I’m not his problem anymore. Whatever happened between us back in the woods was probably his way of making do after eight years in prison. I mean, if he really found me attractive or thought I was pretty, instead of just jerking off over my body, he would’ve at least kissed me, right? Yes, he said he wouldn’t kiss a Turner, but that didn’t stop him from… doing other things.