Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Jesus.
Just like that, I'm wet again.
Eighteen years of life and no one told me it could be like this—that a man's voice alone could make me clench between my legs, that my body could be so stupidly eager for someone more than twice my age. That calling him "Daddy" in the dark would rewire my entire nervous system.
Two days since I woke up in his bed for the first time. Thirty-six hours since I almost packed my bags, before he caught me with one hand in my duffel. Since then, the rules have trickled out one by one: You eat three meals a day. You sleep when I sleep. You tell me where you're going, always. You answer me honestly when I ask what you need.
Easy rules to follow—soft suggestions wrapped in that voice that expects obedience. But I've wondered if they have teeth. If "there will be consequences" was just something he said, or a promise he intends to keep.
What I haven't asked—what I'm afraid to ask—is what happens when the novelty wears off. When the thrill of fucking his dead friend's daughter loses its edge. When he remembers why he chose this mountain in the first place: to be alone. Will it be a gentle nudge back down to civilization, or just a locked door one morning when I've gone to collect more of those damn rocks he pretends to find interesting? My traitorous heart has taken root here—in his bed, his cabin, his rules. But this can't be forever. Nothing ever is.
"That's not a fishing rod—that's a goddamn torture device," I grumble, struggling to untangle the line for the third time in twenty minutes. "Why are there so many... parts?"
Jack's laugh rumbles through the clearing, low and private like he saves it just for me. His eyes crinkle at the corners—a rare softening of his usually stern face. That dark beard that feels so good against my skin. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms, dusted with dark hair and marked with the faded ink of his military tattoo.
"City girl problems," he says, sunlight catching the silver strands at his temples—the age gap between us written in physical evidence I find ridiculously attractive.
I shoot him a look. "I'm from Flint, not Manhattan. We have fishing. I just never did it."
"What did you do?" he asks, taking the rod from my hands with easy confidence. His fingers work the tangled mess loose in seconds, movements precise, economical. The same fingers that mapped every inch of my body last night.
I dig the toe of my borrowed boot into the soft earth. The rubber squeaks against itself, comically large on my foot. "Collected rocks, mostly."
The admission feels childish, but Jack's eyes light with genuine affection—a softening I'm still learning to recognize.
"You and those rocks," he says, giving me his full attention. His voice drops to that private register that makes my stomach flip. "This is something you’ve been doing for a while, isn’t it? Tell me about them. Make me understand the fascination."
Something warm blooms in my chest at his response—not dismissive, not humoring me, but actually wanting to know this part of me.
"Yeah, that’s me. The crazy girl who loves her rocks. Minerals, fossils, formations." I watch him bait the hook with deft movements, but don’t feel any of the usual dismissal I get when I talk about my obsession. Kids at school thought I was crazy, but Jack Boone… He’s cut from different cloth. "Dad used to drive me all over Michigan to look for Petoskey stones. They're these fossilized corals with hexagonal patterns. I'd spend hours wading through freezing water to find the perfect one."
I trace a pattern in the dirt with the toe of my borrowed boot. "My grandfather—Dad's father—was a geologist. He's the one who got me hooked. He'd take me rock hunting when I was little, teaching me all the names, the formations, the stories behind each one." The memory warms me from the inside. "His favorite were Yooperlites—these rocks with fluorescent minerals that glow orange under UV light. Super rare."
Jack's eyes stay on mine, genuinely interested. It encourages me to continue.
"Grandpa used to say, 'God and nature got together and made these babies. Can you believe the beauty that comes from something so simple?'" I shake my head, surprised by the tightness in my throat. "He taught me to look for the extraordinary in ordinary things. That sometimes the most precious things are hidden until you shine the right light on them."
Just like the unexpected beauty I've found here, with this man most people would see only as dangerous and remote.
Jack passes the fixed rod back to me. "The ones you brought with you, they’re special, I would guess.” His tone is casual, but there's a weight beneath it—an understanding that my hasty departure might have left precious things behind.