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 pick at the edge of my napkin, the knot in my stomach tightening. “I hope that doesn’t happen. Not because of me.”
“Hunter can handle himself. Anyway, speaking of Hunter.” She leans forward, eyes bright. “How’s the book coming? You writing your ass off or what?”
I smile, unable to help it. “Okay, for the record, it’s not about Hunter, but it’s definitely inspired by him.”
“Ooooh.” She lifts her brows. “Inspired how, exactly?”
“Not like that,” I say, laughing. “Just . . . he’s solid. Reliable. Always shows up when I need him. Even when I don’t, he finds a way to make himself useful. And Natalie, he’s so good with Atticus.”
She watches me, that knowing glint in her eyes.
“I used to think words were everything,” I admit. “That’s what I do, right? Words. But with someone like Hunter . . . he shows he cares by doing. By showing up. I never knew how good that could feel until him.”
Natalie sniffs, squinting. “I thought it was strictly physical between you two.”
“It is,” I say without pause. “That’s all it’s supposed to be.”
She grins. “Sure, okay, yeah. He’s punching people for you and charming your kid and you’re gushing about how romantic he is, but go on. Tell me more about how he’s just your fuck buddy.”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair. “You have good points. I’ll give you that. I don’t know what we are or if we’re even anything. But right now? He’s treating me like a queen. And I’m just . . . trying to enjoy it . . . while also waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Natalie rests her chin on her hand. “That’s smart. Because you might be eating out of the palms of each other’s hands now, but it will drop. It’s Hunter McCrae. That’s what he does. He loves and leaves. Rinse. Repeat. But in the meantime? Have fun. Have fun on behalf of all the Jasperville County women who have tried—and failed—to get a front-row seat with that man.”
“I don’t know why he’s so taken with me,” I say. “I’ve seen the way other women look at him. The butcher. The baristas. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s so different about me.”
She studies me, looking just as perplexed as I feel. “Yeah, I’d love to know too. He’s always had a type. Brunettes. Exclusively brunettes. The small-town-prom-queen, girl-next-door kind. I swear all his exes have fit that mold.”
“I feel like you’re describing yourself.”
Natalie cackles before rising from the table and putting her dishes in the sink.
“I hate to end this conversation, but I need to get back to the shop,” she says, returning to kiss my left cheek. “I’ll text you later.”
I walk her out and return inside. The second the door closes behind me, the house feels too quiet.
I think about everything Hunter’s done since I moved here. Getting me unstuck from the mud. Bringing me a generator during the blackout. Saving Atticus from the river. Teaching him to ride Sugarplum. Helping with dishes. Telling Nick off. Defending me against Cole Benton—not once, but twice.
Worshipping my body like no one ever has before.
And then there’s the way he looks at me.
The way his eyes soften when I talk.
The way his voice drops when he says my name.
He makes me feel things I thought were dead inside me, things I didn’t know I was capable of feeling in this lifetime or at this point in my life.
The thought of it all being temporary—the idea of him waking up one day and deciding he’s done—makes me physically sick.
I press a hand to my stomach, swallowing the nausea that creeps up my throat.
I’m playing with fire. I’m going to get burned. It’s only a matter of time.
My entire life, I’ve been strong.
But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to handle the day that other shoe finally drops.
45
Hunter
It’s late when I pull into Wren’s drive, the lights in the house dim except for the porch light I’m pretty sure she leaves on when she wants me to know she’s home.
She texted earlier—Atticus is down for the night. You coming over?—which is basically a polite version of a booty call. And yeah, I’m not stupid. I’d never turn that down. But I’m still working on more than that. I’m working on her. On us.
I stopped and grabbed a bottle of her favorite wine on the way—something sweet and fruity I can’t pronounce, but the lady at the store swore by it. It wasn’t cheap, either, but this woman’s worth it. I’d slap down my last nickel if it made her happy.
When Wren opens the door, she’s wearing this linen thing—gauzy, loose but barely there. She looks like a dream, like something out of one of her own books.
“Brought you something,” I say, holding up the bottle.