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 shake my head. “Those notes . . . they’re for me and only me. I wanted to remember how it felt to be with you so I could convey those feelings onto the page. I don’t expect you to understand. The mind of a writer is . . . anyway, those notes represented the feelings I wanted to write about—the raw, honest ones. But the things we did together? I’d never publish something that personal. I’d never betray you like that.”
He exhales, jaw ticking. “Natalie said you told her I was inspiring you. That you’re writing a farmer romance. Awfully coincidental.”
I cross my arms. I knew it.
Maybe she didn’t steal the notebook, but she attempted to sabotage this anyway.
I’m done with her, but right now, she’s the least of my concerns.
“I am writing a farmer romance, and you have inspired me,” I say, keeping my head high and owning it because I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing but channel my real emotions into a fictional story. “That’s true.”
“And she said you’ve been talking to your ex. After I handled it, why didn’t you tell me he was still bothering you?”
I square my shoulders. “Because you’ve helped me enough and it wasn’t your problem to deal with. I don’t need you to rescue me all the time.”
He huffs, almost a laugh but not quite. “Your letters beg to differ, honey.”
I flinch because it’s true. And because I hate that it’s true.
“You said you don’t play games,” I throw back. “So why’d you ignore me all week? After everything we shared? I thought we were becoming close.”
His eyes stay on mine, unwavering. “Because I needed time. Time to figure out what the hell to say to you. Time to cool off so I could talk to you with a level head.”
“You couldn’t have just told me that?”
He gives me a firm look. “I was too worked up, didn’t want to risk saying something I’d regret later on. I’ve done that in the past. I didn’t want to do that to you.”
I’m both frustrated by his lack of communication and impressed by his restraint. In a world full of reactive men who lash out and shoot off text messages fueled by pure ego, here’s one who waited until he could speak with clarity—because he didn’t want to risk hurting me.
“It was a slap in the face,” I say, “being ignored by you.”
“I was pretty upset,” he says.
We bicker some more, circling the same arguments, the same misunderstandings.
“I just wish you’d—” Before I can finish my sentence, he shuts me up with a kiss—hard, impatient, searing.
I’m breathless when he pulls back.
His hand cups my jaw.
Our stares hold hard, steady, with the kind of intensity akin to baring your soul.
“What are we doing, Wren? I don’t want to keep going rounds with you when at the end of the day we’re arguing over the same thing. I don’t care who’s wrong or right. I just want to be with you, and I know you feel the same, or you wouldn’t be standing here talking to me. You wouldn’t be kissing me back like it’s the last time you’ll ever see me again.”
I start to answer, my voice thick with frustration, but then his mouth is on mine again, swallowing the words before I can spit them out.
“Get in the truck,” he says, pulling back just enough to speak. “We’re done arguing, honey.”
“No,” I say, panting. “I can’t. My son’s inside. I’m not leaving.”
“Who said anything about leaving?” His eyes darken, and his voice dips lower, rougher. I glare at him, chest heaving, about to unleash a fresh round of indignation—but then he walks off, strides to his dusty Silverado, and swings open the rear passenger door. “Get. In. The. Truck.”
59
Hunter
The second the passenger door clicks shut, she’s all over me—hands in my hair and lips crashing into mine, that soft little sound she makes when I pull her deeper into me.
I grab her hips and haul her onto my lap like I’ve been starving for this—because I have. I’ve been starving for her. Every inch of her. Every sound. Every taste. Every breathless, desperate touch.
The cab fills with heat fast—windows fogging, breaths quick and heavy like we’re running out of time.
I drag my hands under her shirt, palms hot on her bare skin, feeling the curve of her waist, the softness of her back, the little ridges of her spine. She shivers under my touch, her nails digging into my shoulders as I suck at her neck, just below her ear, like I want to mark her—because I do.
She shifts in my lap, grinding against the growing bulge beneath my jeans, her breath hitching when she feels exactly what she’s doing to me. My hands don’t leave her body, not for a second. I spin her around, pressing her hands against the foggy window.