Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88992 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
But being in the gym did something for me that nothing else did. It let me work out my rage while also exhausting my mind. If you think of anything besides fighting while you’re on the mat, you’ll get hit—and getting hit hurts. It was a respite in the storm of my life.
That’s what I see in Trent’s eyes, too. Hell, it might be in mine these days, as well.
I shake my head. “Nah, I was a hell of a lot cuter than that kid.”
“My ass.” Alfie chuckles. “You’ve always been an ugly little shit.”
“Right. Now I know you’re full of it.”
He groans, rolling his eyes as he starts to chuckle again.
“Nice chat, but I gotta go,” I say. “Promised Mom I’d swing by Miller’s Market and get her a couple of bags of frozen blackberries.”
His eyes light up. “Is she making her famous cobbler by any chance?”
“The hell if I know. I just do what I’m told.”
“Well, you tell Miss Sally that ole Alfie could use a piece of cobbler if she has one extra lying around.”
I give him a wave. “I’ll see what I can do. Later.”
“See ya, Brooks.”
I duck out of the side door into the parking lot, shivering against the cold. Goose bumps break across my flesh as I climb inside my truck and start it. Then I pull onto the street, my tires splashing in the potholes filled with water from last night’s storm.
The old brick buildings and small shotgun houses put up during a coal mining boom in the late 1800s line the side of the road. Large whiskey barrels placed by the Sugar Ladies Club beneath each light pole sit empty, waiting for the colorful flowers that my mother and her friends will install as soon as spring arrives. A sign for the farmers’ market, set to reopen in a few months, has a trash bag draped over it.
I flip my turn signal to turn left into Miller’s Market, but I notice a pretty blonde in a white Jeep waiting to pull onto the street from the gas station. Her eyes meet mine through the glass, her lips parted as if she’s surprised to see me. A slow smile tugs at my lips.
“There you are,” I say, smirking.
Her fingers lift off the steering wheel, and she waves. I swear I can feel it in my cock.
My fingers itch to flip my signal and turn right to talk to her instead, because I’ve replayed our conversation continuously since I left Gray’s last night. Every grin, giggle, and batting of her lashes I can recall with precise detail. Her voice echoes through my brain like a fucking Siren’s call.
But women like her are gems. Unicorns. They’re beautiful and intelligent, usually from families who have silver spoons and trust funds, who want marriage, children, and a white picket fence with the type of man who loves golden retrievers.
And that is most certainly not me. I love cats.
Sweet Auddie Van is not the one-night-stand type of woman or fun fling material, and that’s all I’m good for right now. Guys like me break everyone’s heart before it’s over, so it’s best if I just stay away.
I return her wave and turn into the market instead.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Audrey
I can do this.
Chimes shaped like pizza toppings—a pepperoni, an olive, and a cute tiny mushroom—rattle against the glass door to Piper’s Pizza.
Notes of oregano perfume the air, and the sound of a midday soap opera rings out through the restaurant as I step inside. The building is small with a one-room dining area holding seven booths, eleven tables, and five barstools at a counter. A large display case, which takes up premium real estate next to the bar, is chock-full of homemade pies and a chocolate cake so delicious I consider ordering dessert and nothing else.
“Welcome to Piper’s,” a middle-aged woman wearing a black waist apron with the word “Piper’s” written in sparkly gold paint says with a bright smile. “Have a seat wherever you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
I clutch my wallet and survey the room for the perfect spot to have the very first solo lunch in public in my life. I prefer a table by the windows so I can take in the adorable small town, but my nerves demand I choose a booth in the corner. The farther away I am from people, the less likely they are to see me, and that’s one less reason to be self-conscious.
When Hartley suggested Piper’s this morning as a good lunch spot in town, I worried that it would be packed. After all, he informed me, Sugar Creek has only two eateries—Piper’s and Patsy’s. He promised that they’re both dead between the hours of two and four, and if I timed my arrival perfectly, I might not see a single soul except for the waitstaff.
I settle into the corner booth, avoiding eye contact with the farmers holding court at the round table in the center of the room. Their conversation is loud and their laughter raucous in the best way. It reminds me of sitting with Astrid and Gianna in Stupey’s, our favorite Nashville restaurant, when they’re two drinks in.