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)
Hunter McCrae is washing my dishes.
He’s got his sleeves rolled up, his stance relaxed, like this is just something he does.
Like it’s normal. Like we’re normal.
I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe.
“You’re still here,” I finally say.
He glances over his shoulder. “What, like I had somewhere else to be?”
When he turns back to rinse a plate, I swear I see the faintest smile playing on his lips.
We finish the rest together—quietly, efficiently, without any of the weird tension I expected. It’s a kind of silence that’s easy, not empty. Natural, almost.
When the last dish is in the rack, I reach for a towel and dry my hands.
“I feel like I need to pay you for your services today,” I say. “What do I owe you?”
Hunter tosses the damp dish rag on the counter. “Come outside and talk to me and I’ll consider it even.”
I squint before pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. “You feeling okay?”
He captures my wrist, eyes locked on mine. “Haven’t felt okay since the day you walked into my world and turned it upside down, honey.”
My stomach flips.
“You’re romanticizing me.” I pull my hand back with a smirk. “I’ll talk to you outside, but don’t kiss me.”
He drags his finger across his chest, marking an X. “I promise I won’t kiss you.”
We step out onto the porch, the night wrapping around us like a worn quilt. No wine. No beer. Just the creak of the swing and a million stars overhead. The seat shifts beneath us as we settle in, and Hunter leans back, arm stretched along the backrest, close but not quite touching me.
“So tell me about that idiot who left you at the altar,” he says out of nowhere, like it’s a question he’s been waiting forever to ask.
“That’s . . . random.”
“Not at all.” His brows lift as he stares straight ahead, confident. “I want to know how he fumbled you so I don’t make the same mistake.”
I fight a laugh and shoot him a look. “You won’t make the same mistake.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you won’t have the opportunity,” I cut back. “Nice try, though. That was a good line. I should use that in a book.”
“Fine. I’ll give you exclusive rights to use that line in a book—but only if you tell me what happened.”
I wait a beat, exhale, then say, “The day of our wedding, his high school girlfriend messaged him on Facebook.”
“Why was he checking Facebook on his wedding day? Shouldn’t he have been . . . I don’t know, doing more important things?”
“That’s a great question, and I don’t particularly need to know the answer anymore.”
“Did he get back with her?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I say, leaving out any mention of Nick texting me the other week. I didn’t respond, and he hasn’t reached out since. There’s nothing he could possibly say to change how I feel about him and what went down. As callous as it may sound, Nick is dead to me. “And he didn’t technically leave me at the altar. I was in the parking lot outside the church. With my dad. Minutes from being walked down the aisle.”
A quiet beat rests between us.
“I’d written him this beautiful love letter for that morning. Had my maid of honor, Reese, deliver it to his hotel suite along with these platinum cuff links I had custom made with his monogram. Anyway, that letter . . . poured my heart and soul into it. It was more personal than anything I’d ever written—I mean, I thought I was writing to the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.” I suck in my cheeks, the phantom sting of foolishness sending a flash of heat to them. “When I spotted him in the church parking lot before our ceremony, I thought it was odd he wasn’t inside, waiting for me at the altar. He wasn’t smiling. Didn’t seem happy to see me. His expression alone was a punch to the gut. Before he said a word . . . I knew. And then he handed me a folded-up piece of paper, a letter written on hotel stationery. Told me he was sorry. Got into his car and drove away.”
“Jesus.” Hunter massages the back of his neck before blowing a breath between his lips. I wait for him to ask what the letter said, but he doesn’t, and I’m grateful for that because I don’t even remember. It was some hastily scribbled half-assed apology about how he realized he’s still in love with his ex and marrying me wouldn’t be right.
“Cliché, right?” I shake my head. “Thing is, it hurt. It was humiliating. But the worst part was what it did to my son. Atti thought Nick was going to be his dad.” I stare down at my hands, wringing them. “I’ll never let anyone do that to him again.”