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)
Unless she didn’t want me to know.
Unless she’s still not over him.
Either way, it’s bizarre, and I don’t like how it sits in my gut.
I think of Reese—not my oldest friend, but my truest, bluest friend. She’d have never kept something like this from me.
I finish putting the laundry away, still thinking about it, still chewing on the discomfort. Afterward, I head to my office, ready to knock out another chapter or two while the house is still quiet. But when I start digging through my desk for my notes, the sunflower notebook—the one I’ve been writing in every night, the one where I’ve scribbled plot ideas and sensory details from every night with Hunter—is gone.
I stop in my tracks, jerking open every drawer twice before flipping through stacks of paper. Next I sprint upstairs to check my nightstand and dresser drawers. I check every inch of the kitchen. Every shelf in the living room. The entry table. The laundry room.
Nothing.
My pulse hammers, stomach dropping. I’ve had that notebook by my side constantly. If that gets into the wrong hands—Hunter’s hands—I’ll be humiliated. My most intimate thoughts about him, my hopes, daydreams, fears, insecurities, and hard truths are all laid out bare on those pages. Unpolished. Unfiltered. Raw. Vulnerable.
I imagine him poring over those writings and walking away with the notion that I’m some lovesick romance writer with a schoolgirl crush. Now he thinks I’m sexy, independent, intriguing. If he reads my writings? I’ll come across as someone who’s so desperate for love she started idealizing a complete stranger from the very first meeting.
I’ll lose him.
I’ll lose him for good.
And if Natalie finds it? All those personal details about the things Hunter and I have done . . . will be public fodder. He’s a private man, and I can think of no bigger invasion of that privacy. Not to mention, I can only imagine Natalie spinning it like I’m using him for literal inspiration when I’m only drawing inspiration from the way he makes me feel.
Panic claws up my throat. I can’t breathe. I tear the house apart, room by room, checking and rechecking. Under beds, behind cushions, in the laundry basket. I even check the car, despite knowing I haven’t taken it out of the house.
Still nothing.
I rack my brain. The only people who’ve been here in the last few days?
Natalie and Hunter.
But Hunter didn’t go near my office. He was with me the whole time he was here, barely let me out of his sight. Natalie, though . . . she took a couple of bathroom breaks. We even hung out in my office for a few minutes as she paged through my paperbacks in search of one to take home.
I don’t want to believe she’d do something like that. But who else would have? Who else could have?
I sit at my desk, staring at the empty spot where my notebook should be, a hollow ache opening in my chest.
Regardless of who has that notebook—Hunter or Natalie—no good could possibly come of this.
47
Hunter
I’m fixing a gearbox at a bin site when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I wipe my hands off on a shop rag, check the screen—local number, one I know well.
Bill Porter—an old, retired farmer I’ve been negotiating with for months over that 220-acre parcel south of the river. We finally agreed on a price last week—a damn good one for me, better than I expected. He’s been working with his lawyer to get the paperwork drawn up.
“Bill,” I answer. “Good timing. I was gonna follow up this week, see how the paperwork was coming.”
There’s a pause followed by a raspy exhale on the other end.
“Hunter, I’m callin’ to let you know the deal’s off the table,” he says.
I straighten, frowning. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I press the phone tighter to my ear. “We settled on a number. You said you were moving forward.”
“Yeah, well . . . I’m backing out of the deal.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why? What changed?”
Another pause. I hear his breath rattle through the line, like he’s debating if he wants to say it.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” he says finally. “That’s all I’m gonna say.”
I grit my teeth. “Bill, what are you talking about?”
“I ran into Cole Benton the other day. He told me how you assaulted him.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. I should’ve known Cole wasn’t gonna let that go quietly.
“He also said,” Bill continues, his voice going lower, “you’re datin’ some . . . well, some woman, the kind of gal a man wouldn’t take home to his mama.”
I bark a humorless laugh, shaking my head. “You believe everything that drunk son of a bitch says?”
The irony of this whole thing isn’t lost on me. In fact, it infuriates me. Cole’s painting me in a negative light, and Bill’s turning a blind eye to the fact that Cole’s exactly the kind of man Bill wouldn’t do business with.