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)
“As a species, I mean,” she explains. “By design, we’re social. Being together, pairing up, it’s a survival mechanism. Sure, the media and society romanticizes it, but having a partner serves many purposes.”
I let her words marinate, though I’m not sure where she’s going with this.
I scratch the side of my temple with my knuckle. “And you’re a romance writer?”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pretty sure the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
“Two things can be true, you know.” She tilts her pretty face, staring me down like she’s got some kind of agenda to peel back my layers one by one. “We can accept that being with someone can serve a functional purpose, and we can also accept that it’s okay to desire things like love and romance and happy endings and companionship.”
I take another bite. This one intentionally too big. I’d rather choke down this rubbery chicken mush than dignify that with a response—because she might be right, but it doesn’t change how I feel.
It’s easier to be alone.
She picks at her food a little longer before setting her fork down. “Where’d you grow up?”
I blink, surprised she’s changing the subject. “Here.”
“In Colton Valley?”
“About five miles east of town. Went to the Colombia-Newville high school, then went to Iowa State for ag business. My parents passed shortly after graduation. Took over their operation when I was twenty-four.”
She rests her chin against her palm. “And you’ve just . . . stayed? Ever since?”
“Where else would I have gone?” I look around at the room, the furniture. “I find comfort in the familiar, in the things I know. So much of life is unpredictable and out of our control. You can leave home,” I add, “but home can never leave you.”
“That’s kind of poetic.” She flashes me a quick smile that makes my stomach do some stupid somersault thing.
I kick myself for saying the kind of thing I’d usually keep to myself. No one gives a shit about anyone’s philosophical ramblings, especially not mine.
The clock on the wall ticks loud in the silence between us.
“I went to Iowa State too,” she says. “How old are you? Maybe we were there at the same time.”
“Forty-two.” It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked me my age. Saying it out loud hits me like a quick shove to the chest—not because I care about my age, but because it’s a reminder of how quickly the years pass when you’re not paying them much attention.
“I’ll be thirty-nine this summer.” She sits straighter, a hint of excitement in her tone. “I bet we walked by each other on campus a hundred times and didn’t even know it.”
“You majored in ag studies too?” I tease. I push my chair back and grab our plates. “I should get back to the shop. Clean off some equipment before the next window opens.”
She stands too. “Of course. I’ll let you get back to work.”
I walk her to the door. She lingers for half a second on the threshold, peering up at me through a fringe of curled lashes that make her look a hair younger than her thirty-nine years.
“Thanks for eating my cooking,” she says. “Even if it was terrible.”
“Best chicken rice casserole I’ve ever had in my life.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She lifts a brow and we exchange a look that, for a sliver of a moment, makes me feel like I’ve known her for years, not weeks. “In case you didn’t know that.”
I smirk, sniffing a laugh before I can stop myself. It doesn’t feel bad. Smiling. Honestly can’t recall the last time I did before she came around. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
With that, Wren turns and struts back to her SUV, hair lifting in the breeze, the hem of her sundress catching around her legs with each step, braid bouncing against her back.
And I stand, idling a minute longer than I should, watching her go.
There’s something different about this woman.
She pushes against me. Doesn’t just accept the scraps I offer. Doesn’t seem scared of me either. Most people find me intimidating. They respect me, but they never test my limits—personally, professionally, or otherwise.
And I don’t know yet if that’s going to be a good thing . . .
Or the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
14
Wren
It’s a quarter past ten when the power goes out.
One minute I’m rinsing a coffee mug and watching lightning thread across the far side of the river—and the next, the whole house sighs into silence. No refrigerator hum, no fan in the hallway, just the distant rumble of thunder and the rustling of early spring leaves through the open windows.
I pause for a moment, listening, taking it in as if it’s the first time I’ve ever truly experienced a storm rolling through.