Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Me: I’ve been talking to the owner of my favorite gallery here in DC and she’s going to show my work! She loves all the charcoal drawings of the mountains, so we’re going to focus on that because she’s even offered to host a show. I’m doing what you said and using a pseudonym, so even though I’ll be in attendance, people won’t know it’s me. I don’t care, I want to see what people think of my work. Hopefully it doesn’t crush my ego to dust. I wish you would be here for it. I can’t imagine doing this without you.
Me: Have you completely destroyed the spreadsheets I made? Ugh, I don’t even want to think about what kind of shape they’re in. Don’t worry, I’ll fix everything when I get there.
Me: The exhibit sold out! All fifty tickets sold, which boggles my mind. Now I’m so nervous!
Me: The headaches are bad today. I wish I could curl up in your lap and lay my head on your chest and listen to your heart. There’s nothing better than that. Well, maybe when you’d make me come. I wonder if that would help the headaches? I’ll report back on that . . .
Me: Well, the orgasms didn’t help the headache. And they didn’t help me missing you. And it’s not nearly as good as when you do it, so maybe I’m not ready for that. Fuck, I miss you. I Miss You!!
Me: I think we should take a trip somewhere. Maybe somewhere tropical, like the Maldives, and we can be lazy in a hammock that sits over the water. I know, you’re not good at being lazy, but maybe you’ll do it for me. We’ll have lots of tropical sex. God, I think about sex way too often for a woman who isn’t getting any. This is all your fault, by the way. Why do you have to be so sexy?
Me: I had Mexican for dinner. It wasn’t nearly as good as that place we get takeout from.
Me: I had to kill a spider today. By myself. By Myself, Gideon! I’m not okay.
Me: I had lunch with my parents today. How Mom found time for a lunch, I’ll never know. It was fine. I make it no secret that I don’t want to be here, and I want to go back to Montana. Mom ignores that part. I hate being ignored.
Me: So, here’s the thing. After this exhibit, I’m coming back to Montana. Whether you read any of this or not, I’m coming back. I need you. I need the ranch, the mountains, even that fucking obstacle course. If you turn me away once I get there, so be it, but I have to try, Gideon. I have to. Please let me come home.
Me: Merry Christmas, big guy.
Me: The gym kicked my ass today. *pout*
Me: Happy New Year!
Me: Do you remember that day when we went to the hardware store and you made me walk in front of you, pushing the cart? That was hot as fuck, Gideon. I was thinking about that today. I don’t even need to go to the hardware store, but I kind of want to. Not that it’ll be any fun without your sexy body pressed up against me.
Me: It’s my birthday. Willow sent me a cake! I mean, she didn’t bake it because it would get torn apart in the mail, but she had it delivered, and it was so sweet of her. It’s even my favorite. I plan to eat this whole thing myself. Don’t tell my trainer.
Me: I wish you’d answer your phone. Or just read my messages. Although, if you read them and don’t reply, my heart will be so broken, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. You wouldn’t do that to me. You’d say something, even if it was just Go Away, Rebel.
Me: I want to sit outside and look at your mountains tonight.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Gideon
“I don’t fucking care how cold it is—get your asses moving!”
No one dares glare at me as my recruits trudge through the snow on a run. It’s cold as fuck out here. And it should be. It’s January in Montana, for fuck’s sake.
January 14.
We pass by the obstacle course, and all I can see is Lena, climbing those ropes, running through the tires, walking the balance beam.
Fuck.
Not ten minutes goes by without my thinking about her, and it’s been almost two fucking months. Two long, agonizing, terrorizing months.
Because the ranch, the one place on this earth that has always been my safe place, is a fucking torture chamber.
She’s everywhere.
In my gym, in my bed, in the kitchen. I can’t escape the memory of her, no matter where I go. I packed up all her things in a fit of rage and mailed them to the White House weeks ago. I’ve cleaned and scrubbed the house, and yet I swear I can still smell her oranges in my pillows.