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)
The moment that might’ve been.
The moment I hope, someday, finds its way back to me. If not with you, then with someone who chooses me. I want to be chosen.
God, I want to be chosen.
I’ve never said that out loud before. Or written it on paper. And as a highly accomplished and independent woman, it feels jarring to admit . . . but just once I’d like to be chased, desired, and desperately wanted. I’d like to be with a man who doesn’t make me earn my place in his life. Who doesn’t require performance, only authenticity and presence. A man who tells me I’m enough, just as I am. A man who makes it clear he’s been waiting his whole life . . . for me.
That’s the whole point, isn’t it?
That’s why I write love stories and that’s why people read them.
The fantasy of being someone’s special person. Their one and only.
I’m realizing now that I’ve always been the chaser, the performer, the one who diminishes her needs in an attempt to be easier to love . . . and where has that gotten me? Pregnant. Alone. Jilted. Confused.
You piqued my curiosity with your enigmatic ways, Hunter. You got me to pick up the pen again. But I don’t think this is healthy for me anymore, fantasizing about you and imagining in my head that you’re so much more than you really are, that there’s any chance we could be something.
That’s just limerence in disguise.
Limerence isn’t romantic.
Real love is.
You’re just a fantasy.
And I’ve accepted now that it’s all you’ll ever be.
—Wren
17
Hunter
Rain’s still clinging to the air like a stubborn houseguest that doesn’t know when to leave. Makes the shop smell like damp concrete and oil spills. Familiar. Steady. Nostalgic. Everything I’ve ever known.
Cal’s ass is parked on a stack of five-gallon buckets, work boots propped on the axle of a stripped-down cultivator. Truitt leans against the workbench, fiddling with the same damn pocketknife he’s been pretending to need for the past ten minutes. I’m perched on the edge of my rolling stool, oil-stained hands wrapped around a thermos of black coffee that tastes more like burnt toast than caffeine, but it does the job.
Too wet to plant. Too early to call it a day.
We’ve already greased tractors and planters, fueled equipment, and replaced bearings. We’re always grateful for a little forced respite during planting season, but now we’re just three bored men who don’t know what to do with themselves when they’re not busy being busy.
It’s a dangerous combination.
“You know what I hate?” Cal says, squinting at the ceiling like he’s searching for divine support. “Spring forecasts. They tease you into thinking you’ve got a good run coming, and then they shit all over your schedule like a lactose-intolerant toddler on a dairy binge.”
Truitt snorts, his smile stretching as wide as his face and his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Damn, man. Too vivid.”
Cal smirks, satisfied to get a rise out of his easier-going colleague.
Cal’s got this cocky swagger to him—wiry, sharp-eyed, and always two steps ahead of everyone in the room. Mouthier than a jackrabbit on espresso, but there isn’t a single piece of equipment he can’t fix. Saved me more times than I can count. I hired him straight out of high school, and he showed up the next day like he’d been born with a wrench in one hand and a chip on his shoulder.
“Should be back in the field by tomorrow, I’d think?” Truitt says, wiping his palms down the front of his dusty jeans like he’s hoping to wring the rain out of the air. He’s the quieter of the two. Slightly softer around the edges. Loyal to a fault. I’ve never seen anyone work harder or care more. It’s like he owes the ground something and he’s determined to pay it back in sweat.
“If we’re lucky. Ground’s holding water like a damn sponge,” I tell him. “We’ll know more in a couple days.”
Truitt nods and goes back to pretending that stupid pocketknife is going to solve all our problems.
Silence stretches between the sounds of a fly buzzing near the window and the distant rumble of a semi down on 49.
“You’ve been off your game lately, boss,” Cal says, leveling me with that look of his—the one that’s half amusement, half challenge. “Distracted. You’re missing stuff. Like yesterday? You called me ‘Truitt.’ Twice.”
Truitt chuckles. “Yeah. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I was starting to wonder if we should both just answer to my name now.”
“Hell, why not?” Cal shrugs. “I mean, he’s the nice one. I’m the pretty one. We’re both damn good at our jobs. Between us, you’ve got a full-functioning adult male.”
“Go sweep the shop.” I ignore their banter, sipping my coffee.
Cal chuffs, elbowing Truitt before leaning close. “He’s not denying it, though.”