Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 109(@200wpm)___ 87(@250wpm)___ 72(@300wpm)
For one wild, bright second, the world is suspended in amber. I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. All I can do is stare at him, words stuck in my throat.
Then everything in me snaps loose, and I choke out a laugh that’s half-sob. “I know it’s crazy, but I love you, too. I love you so much it hurts.”
He doesn’t move, just holds my gaze until I can’t stand it anymore. I drag his face down to mine and kiss him, hard and awkward and perfect. He kisses back like he’s starving, fingers in my hair and mouth devouring mine.
He pulls back, face unreadable for a second, then he stands up and pulls me to my feet. He digs into his jeans pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, then drops to his knees in front of me.
Oh wow. My breath halts in my throat.
He opens it, and inside is a ring—vintage, simple, the diamond set in a bed of filigree that looks like something out of a fairytale. My breath whooshes out in a single, ugly sob.
He holds out a yellow Post-it note.
I take the note and read it:
I can’t even get the word out, so I just nod, nod, nod, until my neck hurts, then I shout, “Yes!”
He throws back his head, shouts, and slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, then the palm, then every fingertip. He stands up and pulls me into his arms.
“You know,” he says, voice thick, “this was my grandmother’s ring. She said I’d know when I found the right woman to give it to.”
I bite my lip, overcome. “I love it.” I stare down at the ring. “And I love you, too.”
He kisses me again, so fierce it knocks the air from my lungs. We sit back on the blanket with my head on his chest and his arms wrapped around me like he’ll never let go. The sun climbs, the world wakes up, and every now and then, he brushes his thumb over my ring, just to prove it’s really there.
I rest my head on his shoulder and let him hold me, just like this, for as long as the world allows.
For the first time in forever, I am exactly where I belong.
And I never want to leave.
EPILOGUE: SIERRA
FIVE YEARS LATER
The kitchen at Stone Hawke Ranch used to be bare, clinical, the kind of place where you worried about leaving a single crumb on the counter. Not anymore. I’ve spent the last five years sneaking in comfort one detail at a time.
Reagan, my four-year-old daughter, sits perched on a barstool, feet swinging a good foot off the ground, tongue caught between her lips as she attacks a yellow sticky note with a purple crayon. She’s got her dad’s eyes, clear and impossibly blue with that intensity that makes you want to confess your deepest secrets. And my curls. Her hair is usually at war with itself by breakfast time. Right now, it’s escaping the confines of her pink crown hair clips, spilling around her face.
She finishes her masterpiece with a dramatic flourish and slaps it onto the fridge with a cow magnet. All I see is a big brown blob surrounded by a bigger red circle with yellow streaks running through it.
“Mommy, look.” She points. “It’s what I want for dinner.”
I stare at it, trying to come up with what it could be. “What is it, baby?”
She jabs the sticky note for emphasis. “Spaghetti with meatballs, but only if Daddy makes the balls. Your meatballs are bumpy. Daddy’s balls are round.”
Ouch. My pride should be wounded, but after four years, I’ve built up the motherly equivalent of tough skin. “That’s fair. Daddy does make much better meatballs.” I cough, then pray she never repeats any of this conversation out of context at preschool.
“I’m already making baked chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner tonight, but maybe Daddy will make spaghetti and meatballs tomorrow night.”
She nods, satisfied with that option. “Can we show him my note when he gets home? So he doesn’t forget.”
I bite back a smile. “We’ll leave it right here for him.” I nudge the sticky note a little higher on the fridge, next to a cartoon horse Rogan drew last week that actually looks more like a brown blob with big googly eyes.
I’m fixing a salad when the back door opens and Rogan strolls in. My heart does the same little dance it’s been doing every day for the last five years at the sight of him in his plaid work shirt and old jeans. His hair now has more silver at the temples, but he’s never been more handsome.
He spots us and, instantly, all the grit and grump from his day just… melts. Like he’s been waiting all damn day for this exact sight.