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)
How did I get this lucky?
She pulls back, slightly breathless. “You want to come over for dinner tonight?”
I shake my head. “Nah. You and Atticus come to my place. I’ll make dinner.”
She laughs. “Oh yeah? What’s on the menu?”
“I grill a mean non-grass-fed steak,” I tease with a wink. “Just ask the butcher.”
She swats at me, laughing that pretty laugh that always makes me feel like I’m the funniest damn man alive.
“I’ll see you at six o’clock,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she says, eyes warm. “Can I bring a side?”
“Please don’t.”
We share a laugh that somehow feels like home and forever at the same time.
They leave not long after, but not without Atticus asking if he can ride the combine next time. I promise him he can—but not until harvest. I watch them drive off, my chest swollen with something I haven’t felt in too damn long—hope.
Whatever chapter comes next, I’m ready.
And truthfully, I’m really looking forward to letting her rewrite the story of my life.
62
Wren
It’s Friday night and Reese shoots me a knowing look from my porch swing, one dark brow arched and a smirk playing on her glossed lips. She’s already made herself comfortable—crisp white wine in hand, cozy throw draped across her legs, and Atticus curled up beside her with a stack of library books.
“You sure he’s not a romance novel come to life?” she asks as a freshly washed white pickup rolls into my driveway, sunlight catching on the chrome bumper like a wink.
My heart flutters. I try to play it cool.
“I’m not even convinced he’s real,” I say.
Hunter steps out of his truck, and I swear the man’s been plucked from a small-town thirst trap calendar. Non-ripped dark jeans. Polished boots the color of sawdust. A red plaid button-down so crisp it probably saw an iron this morning. And cologne. Actual cologne. Not tractor grease, not sun-warmed sweat—cologne. And somehow, his eyes are extra blue tonight.
He moves toward us with long, purposeful strides, and once he gets close, his eyes drag the length of me as a pleasant expression sweeps over his face. I chose this dress just for tonight—one that hugs in all the right places yet still leaves enough to the imagination. And I spent an hour putting curls in my hair, brushing and smoothing them out until I achieved perfect date-night waves.
“You look stunning,” he says before stealing a kiss, slipping his hand in mine, and making me twirl.
Reese shoots me a bitten grin, giving her stamp of approval without saying a word.
“You must be Reese,” he says, offering his hand.
She takes it, all charm and finesse. “And you must be the one making my best friend swoon like it’s her full-time job.”
Hunter chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to make my insides somersault.
“Atticus, you be good, okay?” I say, ruffling his hair.
“Aunt Reese and I are gonna build a pillow fort,” he tells me, like this is the most serious of life’s pursuits. “A big, huge one.”
“Just make sure it’s still standing when I get back,” I say, my voice light as I descend the steps.
Hunter opens the truck door for me, and I swear, if he’s not trying to kill me with his dashing good looks, he’s trying to kill me with his old-fashioned manners. “Evening, Wren.”
“Evening, McCrae.”
He leans in once I’m buckled and kisses me—soft but full of intention. Like he’s trying to say something without words. And he does. I feel it in every part of me.
“So. Where are we going?” I ask, unable to contain my excitement. Normally I hate surprises. I’m a planner. But handing over the reins to Hunter felt like second nature. When he told me he was taking me on a date and he’d pick me up at seven, I resisted the urge to ask any questions. I’ve never met a man who led. Who planned. Who took control. So far, Hunter’s been doing all of that and more without an ounce of my help—and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world.
He pulls onto the road, his hand resting casually on the gearshift. “Got a few things planned. Dinner. A drive through the countryside. Maybe some stargazing.”
I melt into my seat. The man just said the word stargazing like it wasn’t the most romantic damn thing on earth.
Like I told Reese before, I’m not sure he’s even real.
If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.
The sun dips lower as we drive, casting long shadows across the rolling fields. He takes me to a quiet little steak house off a gravel road where we grill our own steaks, where no one knows our names, and no one’s watching. We talk and laugh over candlelight, and for the first time in years, I feel like a woman—not just a mother or an author or someone who got left behind or abandoned.