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 feel chosen.
After dinner, he drives with the windows cracked enough to let the summer night breeze slip in, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine. For several endless miles, we pass silos and sleeping cattle and distant porch lights, and I don’t want the night to end.
But eventually it does.
It’s after ten when he pulls into my drive and kills the engine, but before he can say good night, I turn to him.
“Can I show you something?” I ask.
He nods, squinting and curious. “Lead the way.”
We walk hand in hand to the back of the property, the moon lighting our path until we reach the riverbank. The air is soft. Still. The water, dark and reflective while bullfrogs and crickets create an evening symphony.
“It’s not blooming yet,” I say, stopping beside a small, fenced-off patch of soil, “but I planted a sunflower patch here. For you.”
Hunter blinks. “For me?”
“It’s a place where you can come and remember Ben. Honor his legacy. A living memorial.”
His throat works around the emotion I can see creeping up on him.
“You’ve never said it outright,” I continue, “but I know you carry that loss like a stone in your pocket. Always there. Always heavy. I figured you’re a man of the land, so I wanted to speak your language. Give you something that grows. Something alive.”
Hunter’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, voice thick, “Growing up, sunflowers were my mom’s favorite. Ben and I used to plant them in random places for her. Behind the barn. Beside the driveway. Middle of fields. Around the gazebo. We’d tell her they were wild, like they just showed up one day. She’d always act surprised, but as I got older, I realized she probably knew the entire time. She probably got more enjoyment out of us seeing her happy than the actual flowers. I guess that’s a mother’s love.”
I laugh softly. “Love is really something, isn’t it? Sometimes it grows wild, in places you least expect. And sometimes we plant it, hoping that with the right care and conditions, it might just bloom.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, voice gravel-soft.
“I know. I wanted to.” I drag in a slow breath as I drink him in. “Sunflowers are resilient. Stubborn. Always turning their faces to the sun no matter how heavy their heads get. I thought maybe this could be something beautiful rising in a place where things went dark.”
He pulls me to him then, arms wrapped tight around my waist, and rests his forehead to mine. “You always know what to say.”
I sniff a laugh. “Words are kind of what I do for a living . . .”
He presses his lips against the side of my cheek, and I deduce that I’ve rendered him speechless.
“I know this land means something to you,” I add. “Which is why I’ve decided—I want to sell it to you.”
He jerks back like I slapped him. “No. Absolutely not. This is your home. Yours and Atticus’s. I won’t put you out.”
“You’re not. I just need some time to find us a new place. But this land? This property? It was always meant to be yours. And you made a promise to your mother. Now you can finally fulfill it.”
“Wren,” he says, tone unflinching. “You are not selling me this place. End of discussion.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“Because I’m not letting you go anywhere. I want you close to me at all times.”
The air stills between us.
“I love you,” he says. Just like that. Simple. Raw. Effortless. Like it’d been dancing on the tip of his tongue all night—or maybe longer. “I know it’s soon, and I know it’s fast. But when you find what you’ve been looking for your whole life, why hold back?”
I don’t speak. I can’t.
Because I’ve never been looked at the way he’s looking at me now.
Like I’m his obsession and his sanctuary and his entire world at the same time.
And for the first time in my life . . . everything feels exactly right.
“I love you too,” I say.
And I mean it.
I wish I could say I’ve loved him from the moment I first laid eyes on him, but I don’t think I did—I think I knew I was going to.
And that’s even better.
63
Hunter
The sun’s sitting high and lazy above the hills, bleeding gold over the tops of the pines as I kneel next to Atticus near the edge of the barn. A soft breeze carries the smell of damp earth and warm hay, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk cries out over the fields like it’s got something important to say.
Kid’s got a bent nail in one hand and a hammer in the other, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth with that level of concentration only five-year-olds can manage. We’re fixing a busted slat in the chicken coop—the one a rogue raccoon decided to test last week. Easy work, but good hands-on experience for someone who’s been asking me all week how everything works around here. Last night at dinner, Wren mentioned something about getting chickens. I figured this would be a nice surprise for her to come home to after she and Reese are done painting the town red this afternoon.