Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 800(@200wpm)___ 640(@250wpm)___ 533(@300wpm)
Much like his pitch-black stare.
For some reason, I gave him blue eyes in my head. Probably because of the ranch he said he grew up on, and when I think of a ranch, I think of blue skies and vast lands.
So, no, he does not look like the man from my dreams at all.
And yet, yet, somehow, he feels so familiar too. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel it. God, I’m losing my mind, aren’t I? Shaking my head slightly, I begin, “You’re…” I grab the back of the chair I’m standing by and steady myself so I can continue. “Are you… Bo? Bo P-Porter?”
Something flickers through his face.
Or so I think.
It comes and goes so quickly that I can’t be sure. But I think it was in response to my question, my voice. It makes me feel stupid—and relieved—because what if he isn’t the man I’m supposed to meet at all? I probably should’ve thought of that before I walked over.
Maybe that’s why my belly has been churning and I’m hearing alarm bells in my head.
“I, ah, I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “I’m supposed to meet a Bo Porter here, and uh”—I dig my nails farther into the chair as his charcoal eyes turn even more intense—“but maybe you’re not—”
“Peyton.”
I think I break my nail at that.
At his voice.
If my voice caused a reaction in him—and I’m not saying that it did—his voice makes my knees go weak. It’s all deep and scratchy. Like along with keeping him locked away, someone locked up his voice too. And this is the first time he’s spoken in the eight years since he got put away.
I try not to dwell too much on that. Or the fact that once again, his voice is nothing like I’d imagined. I imagined it to be deep but not bottomless deep, and I imagined it to be rough but not so gravelly rough.The more important point is that he is the right man after all.
He is my Bo.
Well, not my Bo, but still.
The confirmation doesn’t put me as much at ease as I’d hoped. Not only because of these conflicting feelings that I have about him but also because he said Peyton.
I throw him a jerky nod. “Y-yeah. Yes. Peyton. I’m… Peyton.”
I give him a shaky smile to make it look convincing before quickly looking away and taking a seat at the table. But then my gaze lands on something, and my heart that was already pounding in my chest speeds up even more. There’s a teapot and a cup sitting in front of me, presumably for the person he was waiting for: me.
Along with a muffin.
More than the tea, that muffin does it for me.
It makes my pounding heart squeeze and my voice go wobbly. “Is that…? That’s tea.” I don’t wait for him to reply before saying, “And that’s… that’s a strawberry crumb muffin. It is, isn’t it?” I swallow thickly, still staring at it. “It’s so hard to find. It’s… I told you that.”
Finally, I look up.
Only to find he’s gone rigid. Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t all that different from how he’s been all this time, spine straight, shoulders back, his eyes alert. But now I notice the muscle in his cheek beating like a heart.
Almost like my heart.
I’m not sure what it means, though.
I’m not sure what any of this means, him ordering me tea because I told him I like it better than coffee and that if I can find a strawberry crumb muffin at a café, then that’s the only thing I’ll eat because they usually have the apple crumb but very rarely the strawberry crumb.
Except that my heart is racing and there’s a mad rush in my veins.
“In my letters. I told you what I like to order and… and you…” I fist my hands in my lap. “How did you know I’d even show up?”
Because I never said yes.
Three weeks ago, he sent me a letter saying that he was getting out and that he’d like to meet me here. But I never replied. I didn’t know what to say when seeing each other wasn’t ever in the cards. I mean, he’s the man I met through the prison pen pal system.
Prison.
Our lives were separated by metal bars, and up until this morning, I had all the plans of never having them merge. Of forgetting about him and being smart. Like I always am about everything.
But here I am.
“I didn’t,” he says back, his gaze just as steady and analyzing as ever.
Fuck, his voice.
It’s a truth serum. Has to be. Because words spill out of me without my own volition. “I’m sorry about that. For not writing back. I just… I got scared.”
“Not enough.”
“What?”
“To stay away.”
Again, I can’t read his tone.
I can’t read him, period. But maybe I’m not supposed to. Not yet.