Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Her eyes flick up to mine, and I can see the questions swirling there. It’s almost palpable, this tension like something unspoken and electric in the air. I take a breath, remind myself to keep it cool.
“Hope you’re okay with chicken and salad,” I say, nodding toward the kitchen. “I was going for easy.”
“Sounds great,” she says softly. “Better than me microwaving leftovers in my apartment.”
I manage a chuckle, gesturing for her to follow me. “Well, let’s get to it, then.”
And as she steps past me into the living room, I can’t help the swirl of thoughts in my head. She’s here, we’re alone, and I have no idea what’s about to happen. But I do know one thing: I want to find out what’s got her so spooked, and maybe, if I’m lucky, give her a reason not to be.
10
Kali
I follow Ripley into the kitchen, and I’m immediately struck by how impossibly good he looks tonight. The casual T-shirt he’s wearing clings to his chest and shoulders in a way that shows off his lean, athletic build, and the low kitchen light casts subtle shadows along his arms, highlighting the faint lines of muscle. He moves with an easy confidence, every step measured and sure, like a man who’s spent his life training his body to react on a dime. The natural grace pulls me in, makes my heart flutter in a way I can’t quite dismiss.
Even the way he turns to glance back at me—dark hair slightly tousled, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—sends a spark through my chest. I wish I could play it cool, but the heat crawling up my neck won’t let me. Maybe he notices, maybe not. My attention breaks when the scent of grilled chicken drifts by, reminding me where I am.
Then I see the table near the window, set with two plates and a little jar of wildflowers in the center. My breath catches. It’s understated and sweet, but beneath that simplicity, there’s something undeniably romantic about it. A warmth stirs in my stomach. Am I ready for this? I’m still not sure. But looking at Ripley—tall, confident, and so damned attractive—I feel a flutter of hope that makes me want to find out.
“How’s the chicken look?” Ripley asks, fiddling with the knobs on the stove. “I tried not to burn it this time.” His gaze flicks to mine, and there’s a playful spark in his eyes.
I give a shaky laugh. “It smells better than the tacos, so you’re already winning.”
He flashes a grin that makes my stomach flip. “That’s a low bar,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. I oblige, smoothing my palms against the fabric of my sundress as I settle into the chair. My nerves feel raw and every sense is heightened, from the clink of silverware to the gentle hum of the fridge.
We start eating, and the chicken is actually delicious. It’s tender, with a hint of lemon and herbs. I’m impressed, but also too distracted by how close his leg is to mine under the table to fully appreciate the taste. The conversation flows, though. We discuss everything from weird baseball superstitions to which Marvel hero is the best. Every exchange is peppered with laughter and sidelong glances that set my blood pumping.
Eventually, we talk about deeper stuff like childhood memories, old regrets, and the wild paths that led us both to Starlight Bay. I confide that I grew up in a crowded city, always searching for a place that felt more like home. He tells me he grew up in a dusty farm town, dreaming of that big-league call-up. The more he talks, the more I sense the old fire he still carries, even if he doesn’t outright admit it.
“So,” I say quietly, finishing off a roasted carrot, “you never gave up that dream? The majors?”
He exhales a soft laugh. “Gave it up a dozen times in my head, but never in my heart. Honestly, though, I’m pushing thirty now. Scouts want hotshot twenty-year-olds with bullet arms. I’ve got responsibilities—a daughter, a life here. I can’t chase the dream full-throttle anymore.”
A pang hits my chest at the weariness in his voice. “Juniper’s mother,” I begin tentatively, “she’s not in the picture?”
His jaw tightens. “No. She left when Juniper was still tiny. Didn’t want the ‘burden,’ I guess.” There’s a flash of anger, then sadness, in his expression. “Truth is, after the shock wore off, I realized we’d be better off. Juniper doesn’t even remember her.”
I reach across the table, resting my hand on his. My heart thuds harder when he turns his palm over and links our fingers. The warmth of his skin is dizzying. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, hoping he hears the sincerity in my voice. “That must’ve been a lot to handle.”