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)
Natalie laughs. “Styling people is still my favorite thing to do. Twenty years later, nothing’s changed. I still drive a Honda Pilot. Newer model, of course. I still know every Alanis Morissette song by heart. And I still have terrible taste in men.”
We chat for a few minutes—easy conversation about old classmates, local school board drama, the retired couple who just opened a smoothie place down the street. Nat’s still single, which doesn’t surprise me. She always had a rotation of admirers. Pretty, chatty, magnetic, she could sell ice to a polar bear.
“Where are you living now?” she asks, looping a necklace onto a bust near the register.
“Down on Riverstone. That white farmhouse near the river.”
Natalie’s head pops up. “Oh, I know exactly where that is.”
“Of course you do,” I say, chuckling. Natalie was also our prom queen and class president. I don’t blame her for never leaving a town that’s only ever been good to her. I try on a handful of outfits before checking out with three new tops, a peplum skirt, and a pair of denim shorts. “I’d stick around and shop more, but I’ve got a million things on my to-do list today. You free tonight? Atticus goes to bed early—usually around seven thirty. If you wanted to stop by . . . maybe bring a bottle and catch up? I feel like we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
Her grin widens. “I’d love that.”
Spending the evening doing mom things and playing outside with Atticus followed by catching up with Natalie means I’ll be too busy to stare at Hunter’s farmhouse. A little wine and some good conversation might keep me from thinking too hard about that moment in the shop that keeps looping in my brain like a scene from a movie I shouldn’t have watched.
It didn’t mean anything.
It was a thing that happened.
That doesn’t mean it has to change anything.
And it won’t.
21
Hunter
She’s had company all night.
Some dark SUV pulled up outside her place just after dinner, windows tinted, undistinguishable silhouette behind the wheel. I told myself it was none of my business. Told myself to stop glancing toward her porch like some restless fool pacing inside his own skin.
But it didn’t work.
Now it’s been there for hours. At least three, by my count.
Her lights are on. Porch lights too. I can almost hear the sweet sound of her voice floating across the yard. Light, laughing, soft in that way it gets when she’s had a glass or two.
I think of her ex, the one who left her on their wedding day. It’s an unforgivable act in my book, but the thought of him chasing after her, trying to convince her he made a mistake, invades my thoughts tonight.
My insides burn, but it’s not jealousy—it’s something worse: the sick, sinking feeling of a missed opportunity.
All day, I’ve been thinking about what I should’ve said to her . . .
And I was going to head over tonight, but by the time I got home from the field, that SUV was already there.
It’s almost eleven o’clock before the car finally pulls away. Taillights fade down the gravel road, and the quiet settles like dust after a storm. I didn’t see Wren walk her visitor out, somehow I missed that. But after they’re gone, she doesn’t go inside.
She takes a seat on the swing, one leg curled beneath her, elbow on the armrest. She’s nursing what looks like the last of a wineglass, the breeze playing with her hair. Her face is tilted up toward the sky, like she’s watching stars only she can see—or lost in thought.
I should leave it.
It’s late.
But I don’t.
Without wasting another second, I snatch my truck keys. Two minutes later, I’m pulling into her driveway. She sits straighter when she sees me. I climb out, boots crunching on gravel, hands shoved in my back pockets because I don’t trust them not to do something stupid—like reach for her without asking again.
She doesn’t react when I step onto her porch. Just keeps swinging as she stares up at me with those sparkling, curious blues.
“I know it’s late,” I begin. My heart’s pounding so hard, I feel it in my ears.
Wren turns her head, eyes a little glassy, lips curved into something that’s almost a smile but not quite. “If this is about last night, you don’t have to explain anything.”
Her voice is calm. Measured. Almost too casual.
Maybe I had my chance and blew it.
Or maybe she thinks I’m just like every other guy who’s disappointed her, so she’s keeping me at an arm’s length now.
Her gaze drops to her wineglass before she tips the rest into her mouth. One long sip. Then she sets the glass down on the little table beside her.
“What happened,” I say anyway, ignoring the way her shoulders tense just slightly. “That wasn’t my intention. Something came over me when I saw you and . . .”