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)
Guess he lied.
Maybe one of these days I’ll stop falling for all those pretty words that come out of men’s mouths.
51
Hunter
I’m standing in line at the coffee shop the next morning, bleary-eyed and barely human, when I hear my name in that sharp, chirpy voice I’d recognize anywhere.
“Hunter McCrae,” Mrs. Harrison beams from a table near the window. “Is it true?”
I glance over, lifting my chin in greeting. “Morning, Mrs. Harrison.”
She grins, chin tucked, like she’s been waiting for this. “Is it true you’re dating that author in town? The one who writes the dirty books?”
I rub the back of my neck, chuckling under my breath.
“They’re not dirty,” I say. “They’re very tasteful.”
Her brows shoot up like she’s not convinced, but she’s thoroughly entertained. “Okay, fair enough, but are you dating?”
“I’ve . . . spent some time with her,” I admit carefully, because around here, anything you tell one person is circulating countywide by sundown. “She’s a good neighbor.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, her eyes twinkling before she goes back to her hazelnut latte.
I step forward in line, still irritated from everything I’ve been carrying lately. Cole’s stunt with the Highland field, the sabotaged land deal . . . and then there’s the notebook.
Atticus gave it to me in the tractor the other day, just pulled it out of his backpack like it was no big thing.
“Found this in my mom’s office,” he said. “She’s been teaching me how to read this summer. She said since she writes books, she wants me to be a good reader. I saw your name on all the pages. I thought you might wanna read ’em.”
I didn’t open it right away. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
But curiosity got the better of me that night.
I needed to know how she felt about me, how she really felt. Because I’ve been dying to have that conversation with her, antsy to move things forward and stop dancing around in this gray area.
So I read it.
And it was filled with everything. Sweet notes, her hopes, her worries, things she never said to my face. And then there were the detailed logs of us—of our nights together. What I did to her. What I said. How I made her feel. And alongside those? Plot notes. Chapter outlines. Book material.
A farmer romance . . .
There it was, in her own handwriting—proof that this was all for the proverbial plot after all.
I’m still stewing when the door swings open and in walks Natalie—one of the last people I want to see for a myriad of reasons, but lately she’s at the top of my list due to all the things she’s been filling Wren’s head with about me.
I’ve seen her around town plenty since we ended things. Usually we’re ships passing in the night, barely a nod, maybe a polite wave. But this time, her eyes lock on me and she makes a beeline for the line where I’m standing.
She slides in behind me, her perfume as familiar as it is suffocating.
“Hi,” she says, like she’s trying to sound casual. “How’ve you been?”
I glance back. “You tell me. You’ve had a front-row seat, apparently.”
Her brow arches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I turn fully, facing her. “You could’ve told Wren you dated me. She confided in you about me and you sat there playing dumb.”
Natalie crosses her arms, her mouth twisting into a half smirk. “Our dating history is irrelevant, Hunter. I told her what she needed to know—that you’re a serial heartbreaker. You’ve got a reputation, and I thought she should be prepared. I was just trying to be a good friend.”
I stare at her, jaw tight, but she’s not done.
“Apparently she didn’t take my advice—or she didn’t care—because now she’s writing a book about you.” She watches for my reaction.
I don’t give her one.
And I don’t tell her I already know.
“She says it’s not about you, but come on. Isn’t that what authors always say? ‘Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.’ But we both know that’s bullshit.” She sniffs a laugh, waving her hand through the air. “God, that’s so cringey. And how embarrassing for you, right? Everyone’s going to know who it’s about.”
Again, I don’t reply.
“She told me herself you’re literally her inspiration,” she adds, voice syrupy and cutting. “But maybe it’ll work out because you’re both kind of just using each other. I’m just glad one of your conquests is actually going to get something out of her time with you other than a broken heart.”
She’s desperate for a reaction, but she’s still not getting one.
The line inches forward, but I’m done with this conversation. I grab my coffee when it’s finally my turn and head out without another word.
I need space. I need to think. Because right now, I don’t know what to think.
I’m sitting in my truck a minute later, my coffee untouched and my window rolled down because the air in the cab is too thick to breathe. Natalie Dinsmore struts out a few seconds later, her iced latte in hand, hips swaying as she walks. She’s parked next to me. I keep my eyes trained ahead, avoiding her as best I can, but she stops by my open window like it’s some kind of invitation.