Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
And it takes my breath away. He takes my breath away. Totally unfair.
“You better get to talkin’,” he says. There’s a twinkle in his eye, and I hope it’s from amusement and not the sun.
“So,” I say, coming to a stop in front of him. Whiffs of his understated cologne drift by like a welcome home committee. “I was at Oscar’s last night, and there was this little piglet …”
He drops his arms from across his chest. His head falls to the side as he peers down at me and sighs.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I say, my tone rising. “I panicked.”
“You panicked,” he says carefully. “So you decided to buy a pig?”
“No. I panicked because that baby was getting auctioned off to someone who would fatten him up and process him. It’s like he knew it—he knew his fate. And instead of just standing there looking cute, he chose life.” I talk even faster. “He raced around the arena, searching for an out. He knocked over a farmer and a card table, and I swear the little thing nearly had a heart attack. It was so sad.”
Hartley rolls his eyes.
“He wanted to live, Hart. What was I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. Turn around? Don’t look?”
I groan. This isn’t going quite as well as I’d hoped—I usually get my way much quicker than this when it comes to Hartley. It certainly didn’t help that Oscar beat me to the ranch and the pig decided to make a run for it again. But, at the end of the day, none of that makes getting Hartley on board impossible. It just makes it a harder sell.
“Remember that time in middle school when Gray and Brooks caught those fireflies in a cup because someone told them they could remove the glowy part and put it in their hair?” I ask, trying another angle.
The corner of Hartley’s mouth tugs toward the sky for the briefest moment. But that’s all the assurance I need to continue.
“But you knew how sad that made me because I didn’t know if their parents would recognize them without their glowstick. You saw the tears in my eyes, and then conveniently got Gray and Brooks to run to the barn with you for something so I could accidentally knock over the cup and free the fireflies.” I smile sweetly up at him. “This is like that. Except people were gonna eat … Pigasso.”
“Pigasso?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t name farm animals, Mira.”
“Is this a bad time to tell you that his middle name is Pigglesworth?”
He begins to crack a smile but stops short. Instead, he holds my gaze steadily. There isn’t any anger in his eyes over this whole ordeal. At worst, he’s slightly irritated with me. But he’ll give in because it’s what needs to be done … and I can’t decide if that makes me happy, or if it’s a sharp knife plunged into my heart.
We were five years old when we met. I wore a pink pair of sandals my mom bought me for the first day of kindergarten, and I loved them because I thought they made me the fastest runner at Sugar Creek Elementary. I was standing by the sand table when Hartley came up to me and complimented my shoes. I decided then that this guy was the coolest guy in the world—except for my dad, of course.
Our story started there and ended well before it should’ve. And that’s one of the great regrets of my life. But it’s also a circumstance that cannot be changed, and I’ve learned to accept that.
“Are you keeping that thing?” Cathy shouts, breaking our bubble.
Hartley’s gaze pulls from mine. “I’m as surprised about this as you are.”
Wincing, I peer over my shoulder. “It’s my fault, Cathy. Sorry.”
“Could’ve guessed that without asking.” She points a finger at me and grins. “This had your name written all over it, little girl.”
“I said I’m sorry.” I laugh. “It’s a long story.”
“Always is with you. Now you'd better make time to come by here and help me replant the garden your piggie just destroyed, or the next time I see you, there’ll be no pecan pie.”
I gasp. “You wouldn’t!”
She winks before disappearing inside Hartley’s house.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Bobby says, stopping in front of us. The pig squeals in his arms.
Bobby McIntyre is a bridge between the past and the present. Now in his fifties, Bobby used to work for Hartley’s dad, Ronnie, before he passed away. When Hartley took over, Bobby stayed by his side and helped him assume full control of the ranch. I always loved Bobby. He was fun, saved me from a snake, and pretended not to find the bottles of strawberry wine we hid in the loft of the old barn at the back of the property.