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)
“No need. Emotions were high.”
She observes me for a second, like she’s expecting me to elaborate, but that’s all she’s getting. I’m not the type to drag things out. A man does what needs doing, and if he’s got anything left after that, he gets on with his day. No need to complicate things.
“It’s lunchtime,” I say, motioning toward the dish. “You hungry?”
Her face lights with a small, surprised smile. “Sure.”
That canned chili sits heavy in my stomach, but I’m not in the business of being rude, so I grab two plates from the cabinet—real ones, not paper—and forks from the drawer. She helps dish it up. The sauce is thick and a little too wet, and something about the smell tells me she got generous with the seasoned salt.
We sit across from each other at my table—oak, heavy, hand built. It hasn’t seen a meal with company in years. At least not a woman my age. Glenda, my sixty-year-old bookkeeper, doesn’t count. She’s more family than anything, and even she knows better than to bring me food.
I don’t like being doted on, but more than that, I don’t like the feeling of owing someone.
I take a bite.
It’s . . . not great.
Oversalted. The rice is half mush, half crunch. The chicken’s dry and chewy like it’s been re-cooked three times or worse—from a can.
I keep chewing as Wren studies me.
I don’t say a word.
She doesn’t either, just picks at her plate and pretends not to notice how slow I’m eating.
“So.” I clear my throat. “How’d you end up with Rich Sanders’s place anyway?”
She stops pushing the food around with her fork and glances up with raised brows. “Rich knew my stepdad. They used to work together at the John Deere plant back in the day. My mom mentioned I was looking for a place—somewhere quiet with land. He said he’d been thinking of moving south. I saw the photos and it was perfect. I made him a cash offer—one he couldn’t refuse—and now here we are.”
I’d love to know what she paid, but it’s none of my business, and it’ll be on the assessor page soon enough.
“Did you even look at any other properties?” I ask.
“Didn’t need to.” She doesn’t miss a beat.
“How do you know you paid a fair price?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Things are only worth whatever someone’s willing to pay for it.”
“Guess it must’ve been worth to you whatever you paid for it” is all I manage to say as I choke down another bite of casserole.
“You don’t sound like you mean that.”
How she picked up on the contempt in my voice is beyond me. I’m normally better than that at hiding my true feelings. I’ve never worn them on my sleeve, my face, or any place else they’d be exposed to the world. My father always said a man should never show his cards unless he wants to be taken advantage of.
“For the last eight years, Sanders has been promising he’d sell the place to me. Said it was mine when the time came. Would never put it in writing, but we shook on it. We had an understanding. At least, I thought we did.”
Her mouth parts a little. “Oh.”
I nod once, take another bite of the salt-bomb chicken.
“It’s just forty acres and a little house.” Her voice is soft, laced with an unspoken apology. “Was it really that important to you? Don’t you have thousands of acres already?”
“Yes and yes. But it’s not worth explaining. You bought the piece. It is what it is now, I suppose.”
Her eyes flash. “Explain. I want to know.”
There it is again—that spark. That low flame behind her words that tells me she’s not the type to let things lie just because I say so.
I exhale, leaning back in my chair. “That parcel was the last piece of riverfront ground in the county. If I’d gotten it, I wouldn’t have had another neighbor for five miles in any direction. That kind of space? That kind of quiet? That’s peace to me. That’s freedom.”
It’s not the whole story, but it’s as much as I care to share right now.
There’s a knowingness behind her sapphire eyes. Like she’s watching me, seeing past every word. Like she knows there’s more and she’s just waiting me out.
This woman makes me feel like goddamned cellophane under a microscope. No one’s ever made me feel that way before.
“So you enjoy being alone,” she says.
I nod. “I do.”
Her full lips press together then bunch at one side, like she’s trying to decide whether she believes me. “No one actually likes being alone. Some people tell themselves they do. But we’re not meant to be alone.”
I don’t respond. Because maybe she’s right.
I once imagined a scenario in which I die alone and no one finds my body for weeks. The thought of it depressed me until I reminded myself that if I were dead, I wouldn’t be around to care anyway.