Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 162(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
And he’s much more than that. Just like I am much more than the family money I come from.
"Hey, Not Mine?" June says, interrupting my thoughts. The nickname hits, and even Legion laughs. "Why don't you come into the house. I'll show you around and you can help me in the kitchen."
It doesn't land like a question. And when Legion gives my butt a pat, along with a kiss on the cheek, I determine it isn't.
I follow June through the front door and step into a world that looks like it was crafted specifically to make me ache with longing. The farmhouse interior is everything my mother tried to fake—and somehow never quite managed. Weathered wooden floors that have been polished by decades of footsteps. Mismatched furniture that somehow coordinates perfectly. Mason jars filled with wildflowers on every surface. Hand-sewn pillows with embroidered sayings about family.
It's not just a house. It's a fucking feeling.
The kitchen is straight out of some cottage-core Instagram feed, except nothing about it feels staged. A cast iron skillet hangs on the wall next to an arrangement of wooden spoons worn smooth with use. Copper pots dangle from a rack over a center island where a bowl of actual fresh-picked apples sits. Not the waxed, perfectly identical ones from high-end grocers—real apples with imperfections and character, with stems still attached and occasional leaf clinging to the skin. The whole room smells of cinnamon and yeast and something deeper—the scent of meals cooked with intention rather than obligation.
"This is..." I start, but I can't find the right words. My vocabulary fails me completely.
"A mess?" June laughs, putting on her apron—not a decorative one, but a well-worn canvas thing with pockets and stains that tell stories. "I know it's not what you're used to. Nothing like those marble countertops I've seen in your mother's kitchen posts."
She suddenly looks self-conscious, glancing around her own kitchen like she's seeing it through my eyes—through the lens of someone whose breakfast nooks have been featured in Architectural Digest. I realize with a start that she's nervous—about what I think. About me. Savannah Ashby. The Instagram princess standing in her flour-dusted domain.
"No, it's beautiful," I say, meaning it more than I've meant almost anything in years. "It feels real." The word catches in my throat because that's exactly what it is—real in a way my entire childhood never was.
June's face softens, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "You know, I've looked at your pictures on Instagram for... well, since you were very small."
She busies herself pulling ingredients from the refrigerator—eggs that still have bits of straw clinging to the shells, butter in a ceramic dish rather than wrapped in foil.
“I'm twelve years older than you, so I even remember the day your mother started the account. She was posting dozens of pictures a day—that was back before reels and stories, when filters were new and exciting, when a single Valencia-tinted snapshot could transport someone from their cramped apartment into a world of prairie sunsets and designer children's clothes. I was completely addicted to your life, checking for updates between feeding my babies and hanging laundry, wondering what magical childhood moment Eleanor had staged for you that day.”
I don't know what to say. Of course, I've met many people over the years who say similar things. But they were strangers in meet-and-greet lines or PR events, not a biker's wife with flour on her cheek and a family farm so authentic and desirable, it makes my chest hurt with wanting.
Not someone who could probably recreate my childhood better than I lived it.
"Your playhouse was custom-built, wasn't it? All wood, one-of-a-kind," June continues while chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency, her knife moving in a blur that speaks of years of feeding hungry mouths. "It was filled with these exquisite sets of real china, delicate teapots with hand-painted flowers, and that miniature oak table where all your dolls would gather for their daily tea parties. I remember studying those photos for hours, marveling at how meticulously arranged everything was—the tiny napkins folded just so, the microscopic sugar cubes in their porcelain bowl. I used to wonder how a little girl could be trusted around such fragile treasures without shattering them to pieces. Most children I know would have reduced that china to dust within minutes."
I nod, watching her hands work, remembering how many times I did break those tiny teacups and how quickly they were replaced before the next photo shoot.
"You had that miniature chicken coop too—the one with the painted shutters and that adorable little ramp where those three speckled hens would strut down for the camera. And there was always some perfect, impossibly cute baby animal in your arms—kittens with ribbon collars, fluffy ducklings waddling after you, or those downy chicks nestled in your cupped hands."