Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Sure did.” She places a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side, yet another adorable move that makes me swallow hard. “Fair warning—I’m a terrible cook. Like burn-boiling-water bad. But I’m a really good baker.”
I nod once, not sure what to do with her or this situation. No one’s ever brought me cookies in my life, except for Mrs. Harrison after her husband had heart surgery and I planted their crop that spring. They’re hardworking, honest people who don’t have a lot. I refused to accept a dollar from them, so she baked me a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies every week for a month until I firmly but politely asked her to stop.
She glances beyond my shoulders, into the house.
My jaw ticks. “I’d ask you to come inside, but the place is a bit of a mess right now. It’s planting season.”
Not that she looks like she’d know what that entails, but essentially all things get neglected until we get that last seed in the ground.
“I’ve got a four-year-old. You think I care about a little mess?” she teases, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve known her for years. Some people are like that, though—personable. That’s all this is. She’s like this with everyone, I’m sure.
I begin to say something, to protest this entire exchange by telling her I have to get to the parts store before they close, but the truth is they’ll still be open another several hours and I’m kind of enjoying looking at her right now—as much as I hate to admit it.
Blondie flashes a megawatt grin that almost makes me forget about the whole land thing.
Almost.
“All right, then.” I take a step back, and against my better judgment, I motion for her to come inside. “I’ve got a few minutes before I have to get going, but come on in.”
I’ve never played with fire before, but I imagine it feels something like this—getting close enough to the heat to imagine the burn while knowing you’re full well in control and can step away at any moment.
Her eyes light as she steps inside and slides her wedge shoes off her feet. I can’t imagine she got all dolled up just to see me, but there’s no denying she’s looking like a ray of warm sunshine on a cool spring day. “Quite the place you’ve got here.”
My home is moody and dramatic. All dark wood, exposed beams, big stone fireplace that extends twenty feet up. Taxidermy on the walls, antlers above the mantel. Lodge-style, rugged, quiet—like I like it. Not exactly magazine-worthy, but it’s mine. Built it with my own hands. It’s mine and mine alone, just the way I intended.
She takes a few steps inside, turning in a slow circle, lips parted, taking it all in.
“It’s very . . .” she trails off, looking at a massive buck head mounted above the entry. I don’t hunt, but my grandfather did. I don’t get anything from looking at a dead-eyed animal, but I like having a little piece of him in here. “Rustic,” she finishes diplomatically.
“Sorry, what was your name again?” I ask, setting the cookies on the counter and leaning against the kitchen island. I’ve always been terrible with names, dates, and generally most things outside my farming empire.
“Wren,” she says. “Wren Jensen.”
I commit her name to memory, silently repeating it a few times and hoping it sticks, but odds are it won’t.
“Hunter McCrae,” I say.
Her lips twist at one side and her eyes flash. “I know.”
I run my palm along my beard, squinting. “You know . . . how?”
“I saw you at the coffee shop. That woman spilled her coffee, and you cleaned it up and got her a new one. She mentioned your name.”
Ah, yes. Mrs. Harrison adores me to a concerning degree and rarely misses an opportunity to sing my praises.
“What do you do that you’ve got time to bake cookies for people you don’t know?” I pretend I don’t know she’s the new author in town everyone’s been yapping about.
“I write books.”
“What kind of books?”
She tilts her head, hesitating, her expression reading like she’s got some secret to tell. Meanwhile, she’s standing in my dark kitchen looking like a full-on sunbeam. The whole thing is distracting and surreal.
I hate it.
Or at least I want to hate it.
“Romance.” She fights a sly smile, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink.
I don’t grill her on her genre of choice as I know nothing about it. Never read a romance book in my life and sure as hell don’t intend to start. Last thing I want is for her to start leaving signed paperbacks at my doorstep like homework I don’t have time for.
“So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about lately,” I say.
She lifts her brows. “What do you mean?”