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)
It’s amazing what you can see and hear without the sound and light pollution of the city.
Atticus is out cold upstairs. He had a busy day of playing at his grandparents’ and was halfway to dreamland before his head even hit the pillow. And with the windows open and the air still mild, I’m not worried about him waking up sweaty or uncomfortable.
Despite the beauty and stillness of the moment, the silence of being out here in the country feels more profound in the dark.
I could easily turn on the TV and distract myself, but tonight I choose to embrace it by grabbing a book and my little clip-on reading light, and heading out to the porch. The swing creaks softly under my weight, and the cushion still holds the sun-warmed memory of the day. The storm’s moving east, but the air still smells like rain and electricity and the damp earth beneath it all. Sweet petrichor.
I don’t get five pages in before I hear the faint growl of a diesel engine in the distance.
Headlights round the bend that leads into my driveway and sweep across the trees like a determined spotlight before coming to a hard stop. I squint into the beams, shielding my eyes with my hand until my vision settles on a big white truck.
Hunter.
Of course.
He climbs out, messing with some electrical box near the road, before returning to the cab of his truck and idling down my driveway like this is just another Tuesday night.
I stay seated, book in my lap, reading light clipped to the edge of the cover and cutting unapologetically bright through the night darkness.
He’s holding something. A portable generator, maybe? I think I’ve seen one of those in my stepdad’s garage before.
“What are you doing?” I ask, half laughing because this is absurd.
“I had to disconnect the power at the road so when the power comes on it doesn’t fry this generator.” He nods toward the sizable object in his hand. “You lost power, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly as I watch him get to work. Who is this man? “Just a little while ago.”
“Me too. Transformer’s out at the corner,” he says. “Happens every time there’s a storm. Power company’s notorious for being slow to fix it this far out. Thought I’d save you a long night.”
“So you just . . . you just . . . brought me a generator?” I ask, sitting up a little, lashes batting like they’ve got a mind of their own.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, honey,” he says, stepping onto the porch. “Just because I did this doesn’t mean you need to go making me another casserole.”
He holds up my empty baking dish in his other hand. I hadn’t noticed it until now.
“Looks kinda expensive,” he says. “Thought you might want it back.”
I grin. “It was an engagement gift.”
He arches a brow but asks no questions. Maybe he’s afraid to ask, just like I was afraid to ask about the carvings in the closet when I took him lunch. The question was on the tip of my tongue the whole time, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Call it a hunch maybe, but I can’t help but feel his attachment to that place has more to do with this “Ben” person and less to do with all that talk about privacy.
“For a wedding that never happened,” I add.
“Smart man.” His expression is unreadable, but somehow I know he’s teasing.
I grab the dish from him, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Just for that, I’m definitely making you another casserole. Something with eggplant. Extra soggy.”
He exhales, half amused, half exasperated. “Just . . . practice on someone else next time. Maybe that poor old mare you’ve got in the barn.”
“Nope. You’re officially my test subject now.”
He heads to the side of the house, near the garage, and hooks up the generator like he’s done it a thousand times before. Efficient. Quiet. Focused. I lean against the front porch rails, watching his broad shoulders flex beneath his gray T-shirt. As he works, I take him all in, paying close attention to the way his sleeves cling to his biceps just enough to be distracting, how his jeans are worn in a way that looks effortless, not trendy. The way his hands are rough, steady, calloused, and capable.
God help me, this man could ruin me and never even know it.
When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a shop rag he pulls from his back pocket. He doesn’t look at me at first, just scans the dark horizon like he’s already mentally gone and onto the next thing. I can’t help but wonder if this man ever stays still long enough to just . . . be.
Doubtful.
“You always show up like this? All heroic?” I ask. “Ready to save the day at a moment’s notice?”