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’s quiet for a while. “I don’t blame you. Anyone with half a brain would feel the same.”
I glance at him. “You said once that why you’re single was a story for another day. And, well, it’s another day and I want the story.”
He exhales slowly, eyes still on the stars.
“We’ve had a pretty good night, don’t you think?” he asks. “Let’s not go ruining it.”
That just makes me more curious.
He must see it on my face, because he smirks and adds, “Let’s talk about you instead. I kinda like talking about you. You’re a helluva lot more interesting than me.”
I roll my eyes at his compliment before adding, “You’re deflecting.”
“Maybe a little.” He pauses. “It’s just that I had you pegged wrong from the start.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were this stuck-up city transplant with too much attitude and no sense of grit. Someone who’d flake the second it got hard. But you’re not. You’re tough as hell and you’re soft where it matters. You’re sunshine and a rainstorm at the same time. And the way you love that boy. You’re—” He stops, like he’s editing himself. “You’re magnetic.”
I swallow hard.
“No one’s ever gotten in my head the way you have,” he says. “I’m still trying to make sense of it.” A moment passes, then he adds, “And after the other week, I got one taste of you and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I give him a look. “You were probably just horny. You don’t date, remember? I bet you haven’t gotten laid in a while.”
He rolls his eyes, brushing my theory off. “If you knew how obsessed I’m becoming with you, you’d think I had a real problem.”
I snort. “Okay, Romeo. I’m also stealing that line for a book. It’s too good not to use.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “Wren.”
“I’m serious. You have a way with words,” I say, nudging his knee. “I’m using the shop scene too.”
He gives me a side-eye, not amused. Panicked, almost. Heavy on the silence, like the thought of it sucked all the air from his lungs.
“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “You’re just . . . giving me the kind of inspiration I haven’t had in a long time. Seems wrong to waste it. The stuff I write about in books is the very same stuff you’ve been saying and doing. You’re a real-life romance hero, and I don’t think you even realize it. That’s the crazy part. Sometimes I feel like I wrote you into existence.”
His eyes soften at that, and he reaches for my hand but doesn’t take it, just rests his fingers nearby.
The air is dense with unspoken things, but neither of us moves to fill it.
Eventually, he checks his watch and stands.
“I should head home. Have to run my truck to the mechanic early in the morning. Bad DEF sensor,” he says. This time it doesn’t feel like a made-up excuse, and I don’t even know what DEF is. “Thanks for dinner. Best spaghetti and meatballs I’ve ever had.”
Boxed Barilla pasta. Jarred Prego sauce. Frozen store-brand meatballs.
“You’re welcome, bad liar.” I rise, too, shoving my hands in my back pockets.
I walk him to the edge of the driveway, a few feet from his parked truck. We don’t hug. We don’t kiss. But the energy between us is loud and undeniable.
Once I’m inside and the door closes behind me, I head straight for my notebook.
And I write another letter.
Again the words come easily—easier than ever. Maybe it’s because they’re from the heart. I’d always thought fiction was easier to write. It was less personal. Now I’m not so sure. I’m hoping it won’t be long before I’m back to writing romance books, but until then . . . this feels like bridging the gap—in the best way.
Hunter—
I told myself I wasn’t going to write to you or about you, that I was done fantasizing about some idealized version I crafted in my head. But here I am once again holding onto hope I’ve got no business gripping this tight.
What is this?
What are we doing?
I keep thinking about the way you looked tonight, casually standing at my sink, sleeves rolled up, hands in my dishwater like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I also keep thinking about how you watched Atticus ride that pony like it mattered, making sure his helmet was tight, that he knew all the commands. Teaching him what to do if he ever got bucked off. You genuinely cared about my son’s safety.
Additionally, I can’t stop thinking about how easy it is to talk to you when I’m not trying hard not to. How you can come across so cold and aloof to everyone else yet let me peek behind the curtain of your world is . . . fascinating.
I’m dying to know what it means.