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)
She compares it to writing a book—starting with a blank page and building something that lives and breathes and transforms into a final product to be consumed.
“You can’t force it,” she says. “You just keep showing up every day and trust that something will come of it.”
I stare at her a second too long, watching the way her eyes crinkle when she talks, the way she presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking.
I didn’t notice the time passing until she glances at her phone and says, “Oh my god. We’ve been sitting here two hours.”
I’ve got a million other places to be, but I don’t regret a damn second of this.
We argue over who gets the check—I win, then we say our goodbyes, and I head to the parts store for a belt I need for the 7600.
That’s when I see him.
Cole Benton.
Standing by his truck in the parking lot behind the store, talking to some guy I don’t recognize. His laugh is obnoxious as ever, some bullshit show of bravado.
My chest is tight and my shoulders are tense, nothing but hard knots as I debate my next move. A hundred words—none of them nice—rest on the tip of my tongue.
“Yeah, you see that new girl in town yet?” Cole asks his buddy. “The smut writer?”
He emphasizes the words like they’re meant to be some kind of insult that puts her beneath him, when he’s the lowest of the low.
In that moment, my mental debate is over.
All I see is red.
I don’t think about it. Don’t hesitate.
I storm toward him, yell out his name, short and clipped, and the second he turns around—I plant my balled fist square in his nose.
He goes down fast, hands covering his face, blood pouring between his fingers.
The man he was talking to stumbles off, afraid, taking cover behind the bed of Cole’s bright red Ford.
Chickenshit.
“What the fuck, McCrae?” Cole shouts, groaning from the pavement.
I stand over him, breathing hard, hands still curled at my sides, fist numb and throbbing.
“What the hell was that for?” he asks.
Options flip through my head like cards.
“That’s for her,” I say.
He just stares up at me, bleeding, humiliated, pathetic.
I walk off without another word, climb in my truck, and head back to the farm.
34
Wren
The porch is dark except for the soft glow of my phone screen, casting cold light across my lap, and the porch light drawing in dozens of milky white moths by the minute.
Atticus went to bed an hour ago, but I’m too restless to follow. My phone keeps buzzing, screen lighting up with the same name, over and over.
Nick.
I haven’t heard from him in weeks, not since the texts stopped and the silence stretched long enough for me to believe he’d finally taken the hint. But now, out of nowhere, he wants to talk. Wants to “catch up.” Wants to “check on me.” And tonight, he asked if he could talk to Atticus.
Like hell.
Atticus is too young to understand. Too innocent to grasp that Nick was only ever playing house with us until something shinier came along. I’m not about to let him crack that little heart of his wide open just to disappear again. No way. If I have any say in it, Nick will be a faded, half-formed memory to Atticus—an old face in forgotten photos, nothing more.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t realize a truck has pulled up until the crunch of gravel snaps me out of it.
My heart jumps until I see Hunter stepping out, his silhouette familiar even in the dark.
“I was driving past,” he calls. “Saw your porch light on. Figured I’d stop. Neighborly thing to do.”
I fight a smile, thinking of my Bat-Signal theory, but it pushes through anyway. He’s standing at the bottom of my steps like he’s asking permission to come closer, and I have no idea why that makes my stomach flutter the way it does.
“Just sitting here, scrolling my phone,” I say.
He climbs the steps and sits on the swing beside me, his body warm and solid. He smells faintly like motor oil and soap, like someone who worked a full day and cleaned up just enough to be respectable.
I shouldn’t be this happy to see him.
But I am.
So far, he’s proven himself a man of his word. Solid. Steady. He said I could call if I ever needed anything. Which I haven’t. And yet he continues showing up anyway.
Still, I remind myself—people are always on their best behavior in the beginning, before they’re comfortable enough to show you their true colors.
“You have a good day?” he asks, his gaze lazy, comfortable.
“Yeah. Actually. I wrote ten thousand words.”
His brow rises. “Is that good?”
“That’s really good. Best day I’ve had in over a year,” I say. “I think I’m getting my spark back.”