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)
She shakes her head. “Hunter, don’t. Please. Don’t make this weird. Don’t make it a thing. It’s—”
“No, I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she says. Her voice is gentle but firm. “We barely know each other. We had sex. That’s all. I’m not asking for a postmortem.”
Her tone is breezy, but her eyes don’t match it. There’s something wistful in them.
“Here’s the thing,” she adds quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You . . . you seem like the kind of person who could really hurt me. And maybe that’s a strange thing to say because I hardly know you. But I know myself, and I know how you make me feel, and I just moved here and we’re neighbors and I’ve had one hell of a year and I don’t have the bandwidth for . . . whatever this is—or isn’t.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. “I would never hurt you.”
She gives me a sympathetic look before cocking her head. “You can’t promise things like that. You barely know me.”
She stands then, slowly, wrapping her arms around her middle as she leans against one of the porch posts.
“My friend tonight?” she adds. “She grew up here. She knows you. Says you’ve got a bit of a reputation.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Breaking hearts. Leaving before things get too serious. Or just never getting serious at all.”
I almost laugh, and I don’t waste my breath asking who it was either. “A lot of people here think they know me, Wren. Doesn’t mean they do.”
She shrugs. “Fair enough. But I’m not really in the market to be another name on some list. Yours or anyone else’s.”
Her words hit harder than I expect.
I try to imagine how she sees me. The grumpy neighbor. The rough-around-the-edges guy who can’t get his act together long enough to want something real. The kind of guy who ignores her at a coffee shop, cuts our late-night conversation short, then takes her over the back of his tailgate like he’s starving for air and she’s his own personal oxygen supply.
I’m sure there’s some truth mixed into some of the things she’s heard about me, but it’s different with her already. I can tell. I’ve never been this consumed by anyone—or anything. Except maybe land. And right now, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted an acre of land in my life.
“Regardless of anything you’ve heard,” I say. “The whole casual thing? It’s not me. I don’t let a lot of people in. I’m picky with who I spend time with. If it’s not working, I cut them loose. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching, contemplating.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” I tell her, voice lower now. “And I didn’t know it was possible to feel something this intense over someone I hardly know. That’s got to mean something, don’t you think? You feel something too. I know you do. You wouldn’t fight it so hard if you didn’t.”
A breath catches in her throat, and she looks away.
“I’m just as confused about this whole thing as you are,” I admit, dragging a hand through my hair.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Well. I’m not confused. And I’ll make it uncomplicated for you.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she says, firm and unwavering. “What happened was fun, but it can never happen again.”
I stare at her. This conversation went a whole lot differently in my head when I planned it out a hundred times today.
“I should head inside,” she whispers. “It’s late.”
“Yeah.” I’ve never been good with words, and once again she has me at a loss for them.
She brushes past me, and I breathe her in—warm skin, wine, something soft and citrusy.
Her hand is on the door when she turns back just long enough to say, “Good night, Hunter. I appreciate you stopping by.”
And then she’s gone.
22
Wren
Colton Valley Tractor Supply on a Saturday morning smells like hay dust and motor oil and the ghost of something grilled last week out back.
Atticus is bouncing beside the cart like he’s mainlining pure excitement—as he has been since his birthday the other day. He’s wearing his “pony whisperer” T-shirt my parents got him, a faded green number with a crooked iron-on of a horse that he insists gives him special powers. We’re here for grain and a few treats for Sugarplum—who he insists is part pony, part unicorn, part dog . . . however that works.
He’s in that sweet spot where the novelty of our new, country-fied lifestyle is still fresh, and I imagine this trip to the farm store is basically rural Disney World with fluorescent lighting.
“I think she’d like the apple oat better than the alfalfa ones,” he announces, holding up two bags of treats, one in each hand.