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)
I rub my eyes, kick the engine back to life, use the wipers to scrape the dew off the glass, and ease the planter into position for the last twenty-acre stretch. If the rain holds off, I’ll be done by noon. Should’ve been done two weeks ago. Late is better than never.
The cab still smells like coffee, sweat, and the apple-scented air freshener Truitt stuck in here last month. Said the place “smelled like dead animals and armpits,” and he wasn’t wrong.
I pull up my audiobook app and cue another Wren book. I finished the last one yesterday, and now the only thing I want are her words in my head. They’re soothing. Calming. They make me think. Make me feel a lot of things I haven’t felt in ages. This one’s called One Last First Kiss.
I started it last night when I was half-delirious from the dark, the solitude, and the sound of my own head echoing too loud. Thought I’d listen to a chapter, maybe two, and then switch to music when I got bored—but five chapters in, I couldn’t turn it off.
The woman writes like she sees things nobody else does. The way people work. The way they want. She’s clever about it, sharp in her observations, but not in a way that feels smug or showy. She’s soft and strong in equal measure. Even in the words she writes, there’s this push-pull, like she wants to carry the whole damn world on her back but is quietly waiting for someone to offer to carry her for once.
I get that.
I’ve been the same way my whole life. Never needed anyone. Told myself I was better for it. Stronger. Smarter. Wore it like a badge of honor. But lately I’m starting to think that’s just something lonely people say to make themselves feel better about being alone.
I’d never admit it out loud, but I’m starting to think it’d be nice to be needed . . .
. . . by her.
And not for fence repairs or tractor rides. Not for country life lessons or heavy lifting. But for her. The real her. The messy, complicated, contradicting, maddeningly beautiful woman behind those sparkly indigo eyes, her contagious grin, and that stubborn pride. The woman who writes love stories for a living but pretends like she’s not looking for love herself.
Sometimes I think we’re two sides of the same coin.
I click the play button, the narrator’s voice coming through my AirPods, filling my head and wrapping around me like morning fog.
Wish I could bottle every last one of her words and carry them with me everywhere I go.
If I can’t have her—yet—this is almost the next best thing.
28
Wren
By the time Natalie and I squeeze into a table at the Tipsy Turtle, my senses are already overloaded and the bottom of my heels stick like Velcro against the floor.
The place is packed and smells vaguely like fryer grease, spilled beer, and men whose deodorant clocked off the job hours ago. It’s the only bar in town, so naturally every soul with a pulse has crammed themselves inside tonight. The walls are lined with neon beer signs and old taxidermy. A forgotten jukebox in the corner flashes like it’s still 1995. The parking lot is filled with Polaris Rangers in every size and color, and every third person is wearing camo like there’s an open season on alcohol.
It’s perfect.
And downtown Des Moines could never.
Natalie flags down the server and orders us a round of vodka sodas while I peel off my denim jacket, already regretting my choice of long sleeves. I dressed for the cooler weather that hits on these late spring nights, but in here, it might as well be subtropical.
“You’re officially back.” She grins. “You can’t call yourself a Colton Valley girl again until you’ve sweated through your bra at the Tipsy Turtle at least once.”
“Is that the town motto?” I tease.
“It should be.”
We’re mid-catch-up when two women approach our table—both blond, perky, and painted in enough self-tanner to survive a long winter underground. Natalie recognizes them immediately.
“Hey, girls,” she says, gesturing to me. “This is Wren. She’s the one I told you about. The one who charmed the uncharmable farmer.”
Both their faces change, eyes wide, lips curving into the kind of knowing smirks that say they’re very aware of who she means.
“No shit? You’re the one who charmed Hunter McCrae?” one of them asks, not even trying to hide her intrigue. She leans against our table, resting her chin on the top of her hand. “Tell me all your secrets. Teach me your ways.”
I try to wave it off. “We’re just neighbors.”
“Mm-hmm,” the other one sings, shooting me a look like Sure, Jan.
They peel off before I can correct the record, and Natalie chuckles into her drink.
“You’re kinda famous around here now and not because you write books,” she says. “Better get used to being ‘Hunter’s neighbor’ for the foreseeable future.”