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)
It’s only a matter of time before I run into Cole again.
And when I do?
We’re having words.
30
Wren
Atticus is starting to slump forward on Sugarplum, his little legs barely gripping the pony’s sides, and I can tell by the way she keeps glancing back at him—disapproving and disinterested—that she’s about done with her job for the day.
“Come on, bud,” I call. “Time to wrap it up.”
He groans but turns her around, guiding her back toward the barn with exaggerated sadness, like he’s leading a dying soldier to her final resting place. I hide my smile. He’s nothing if not dramatic, especially when he’s tired.
Hunter watches the whole thing, quiet, observant, hands tucked in his back pockets like always. The sky behind him is peach and lavender, the sun dragging itself down past the hills, and for a minute I just stand there appreciating the view—the man, the sky, the whole moment.
I’m still thinking about his reaction to my Cole Benton story. It’s as if it offended him on some personal level, like the proposition was an insult to him, not me—and that makes no sense.
Why would he care that much?
We’re just neighbors.
Just two people who share a fence line and the occasional awkward conversation.
Still, I’m enjoying this. Hunter’s presence alone has a weird way of softening the space around me, like the air stretches out just a little warmer when he’s near, making it a little easier to breathe.
But the day’s catching up to me, and Atticus is covered in dust, which means bath time and bedtime and the never-ending gauntlet of the nighttime routine is waiting.
I sigh. “I should probably get inside. Get Atticus fed and cleaned up.”
Hunter nods, but there’s a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just rocks back on his heels like he’s making himself leave when he’d rather not.
I walk him to his truck, the air getting cooler with every step, gravel crunching beneath our shuffling, dragging feet.
When we get to the driver’s side, he stops, turning to face me. His eyes trail from mine to my mouth and back again, and for a second I forget how to stand still.
“Been meaning to ask . . . can I get your number?” His brows are lifted, his eyes hopeful. In this moment, he isn’t intimidating or gruff for once. He’s almost vulnerable.
I cock my head. “Hunter, I told you. I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
His lips twitch like he expected that answer. “That’s not why I’m asking.”
“No?”
He shakes his head, slow and sure.
“You’ve been gone a long time, which means you’re practically new here. You don’t know how things work yet. A lot of people are gonna try and take advantage of that.” His gaze pins me in place, serious and certain. “I promise you, Wren, I’m not one of them. I just want you to have my number in case you guys ever need anything.”
The way he says it, low and steady, like it’s a vow, makes my stomach dip.
I give a small, almost reluctant nod. “Okay. Yeah. That’d be . . . smart. I should give you mine . . . just so you have it.”
I rattle off my number, and he plugs it into his phone, his thumbs moving slower than necessary like he’s buying himself a few more seconds before he has to leave.
When he’s done, he slides his phone in his pocket, eyes meeting mine again. There’s something in them I can’t read. Something he’s holding back. Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see. I’ve done that in the past more times than I’d ever admit.
“Wait,” I say, reaching for my own phone. “I should grab your number too.”
He rattles it off before reaching for the driver’s side handle.
“Good night, Wren,” he says before shutting the door.
“Good night, Hunter.”
I watch him climb inside, wait for the engine to roar to life, and stand there longer than I need to, longer than I should, until his taillights disappear down the road.
31
Hunter
It’s Monday morning, and the shop smells like burnt coffee because Truitt got here first today.
I’m crouched next to one of the sprayers, covered in hydraulic fluid and trying to replace an O-ring, when Cal strolls in late, like he owns the place.
“You look like you’re getting sleep for once,” Cal says, grabbing a wrench off the wall. “What’s her name?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, twisting the valve harder than necessary.
“He does look well rested, doesn’t he? He’s got that look,” Truitt adds. “You know. Distracted. Happy but irritated about it. Like a guy who doesn’t want to admit he’s catching feelings.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow with my forearm. “Last I checked, I’m not paying you two to stand around and comment on my looks.”
Truitt chuckles, turning to Cal. “There’s a girl. There’s definitely a girl.”