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)
Cal smirks. “Oh I already know that. I heard through the grapevine it’s that new chick in town. And I heard you’ve been talking to her.”
Of course word’s gotten around. Wren’s been spending time with an old friend, and if she’s like anyone else in town, she’s probably got a mouth on her. Not to mention this town can’t keep a secret to save its life.
“She’s just a neighbor,” I say, getting back to the valve. “Single mom. I helped her out a couple times.”
“That’s what they’re calling it these days,” Cal says under his breath. “Helping out.”
Truitt elbows him. “What’s she do? What’s her deal?”
“She’s a writer,” I say without thinking.
“Wait. Is that the same woman the whole town’s talking about?” Truitt asks, a light in his eyes like it’s all registering.
“No shit?” Cal whistles. “Doesn’t she write smut or something?”
I stand up straight, the wrench heavy in my grip. “Don’t call it that.”
Cal throws his hands up. “Okay, okay. Just saying. Those books are spicy. She probably knows all kinds of things most women around here don’t.”
I glare at him, not liking the way his mind works. “She’s not like that.”
“Fine,” he says, still grinning like an idiot. “But don’t come crying to me when you end up in one of those books. Everyone knows you two are talking, which means everyone’s gonna know the next one’s based on you.”
The thought freezes me mid-motion.
Wren’s joked about it—said she’d use my lines or that stolen moment in the shop, but she backed down pretty quickly when she saw my reaction. I didn’t think anything more of it at the time, but Cal’s words plant something sharp in the back of my brain.
I’ve spent twenty years building a reputation here. I keep to myself. I keep my business private. The last thing I need is some book floating around with a broody farmer character that everyone in Jasperville County can trace back to me.
If she writes me into a damn novel, I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll be a running joke, a laughingstock. It could compromise land deals and God only knows what else.
I should talk to her.
I need to make it clear that whatever inspiration she’s getting from me stays between us and her damn imagination.
I’ll inspire her all she wants—privately.
Then again, I don’t want to go making assumptions, and I can’t imagine she’d want me telling her how to do her job any more than I’d want her telling me how to plant corn.
I need to think on this because one wrong move, and I might lose her before she’s even mine.
32
Wren
“I have to say, Wren, you sound lighter since the last time we talked,” my editor, Laurel, says, her enthusiastic voice crackling through my AirPods as I move laundry from the washer to the dryer. “Happier.”
I pluck a sock from the bottom of the basket. “Yeah? Maybe it’s all the fresh air. Or the complete lack of traffic.”
She chuckles. “Maybe. But I’m telling you, this move? Best thing you could’ve done.”
“I’m definitely feeling inspired again,” I admit, closing the dryer door with my hip. “It’s like everything slowed down just enough for me to breathe. And the ideas just . . . show up now.”
Laurel sighs dramatically. “God, I love that for you.”
We’ve been on the phone for twenty minutes, catching up on deadlines, contract talks, and the possibility of reviving my dying backlist. But now we’re veering into personal territory, which Laurel loves. She likes to say she can’t technically be my therapist because of the ethics of it all, but that’s never stopped her from trying.
“What’s it like out there?” she asks. “Paint me a picture.”
“It’s peaceful,” I tell her, settling onto the couch. “Green fields and gravel roads for miles. Morning light that looks like a painting. There’s this wraparound porch with a swing, and some days it feels like I’m living in a Hallmark movie.”
“Do you have a cute farmer neighbor?” she teases. “Please tell me you at least have a cute farmer neighbor.”
I pause, biting my lip. “Actually . . . yeah.”
“Stop,” she gasps. “You’re telling me you’ve got all the makings of a small-town romance and you’re just . . . sitting on it?”
I laugh. “I’m not with him, Laurel. We’re just neighbors. He helped me out a couple times.”
“So you’re telling me you’re literally living in a romance novel and you’re not writing it? Wren.”
I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. Hunter is basically a romance hero come to life—grumpy, rugged, stupidly attractive. Private but quietly thoughtful. The type of man who builds things with his hands and looks at you like he’s already undressing your soul.
“I think you’ve got your next book,” she says with the confidence of someone who’s just cracked a long and difficult code. “My advice? Don’t let this go to waste.”