Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
A quick craving for coffee hits my tongue. That, and I could use an excuse to run into town again. While I love the peace and quiet out here, I’m still adjusting to the lack of people. Grabbing my phone and keys, I lock up the house—though I probably don’t need to—and head out.
The Bean and Biscuit coffee shop is half-full when I walk in, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood and the faint scent of espresso mingling with cinnamon while Ella Fitzgerald croons from overhead speakers. My hair’s still damp from the shower, tucked into a lazy braid. I order something with lavender syrup and oat milk, because a little part of me still misses the city. It might not be home anymore, but it was my home for almost two decades. The young barista informs me they don’t have either of those ingredients, so I order a vanilla cappuccino instead, carry my drink to a corner table near the window, and sip slowly, scrolling through listings of used saddles on my phone.
I don’t know the first thing about tack. I’m basically just googling “saddle that doesn’t kill me financially” and hoping for the best.
That’s when I feel it.
A shift.
The undeniable, invisible awareness of someone stepping into my orbit before I even see them.
The bell over the door jingles—and in walks Hunter.
Same beat-up jeans. Same dirt-brown boots. Same hard jaw, unreadable expression, and sun-kissed skin. Same dark hair tucked under a sun-faded burnt orange ball cap. Olive green Henley that clings to his wide shoulders like fabric draped over cut stone.
He struts with that same unbothered confidence, the kind I imagine only comes with men who don’t feel the need to explain themselves to anyone.
I try to swallow but can’t because I’m pretty sure my heart is beating in my throat. My ears burn cherry hot. I take a deep breath and try not to make it obvious I’m losing my cool over here.
He doesn’t see me.
Or if he does, he’s pretending not to.
He heads straight to the counter and orders a large black coffee. The barista behind the counter—nervously twirling her strawberry blond curls—leans a little too far over the register when she talks to him. Her emerald green doe eyes all but shimmer, and she hasn’t stopped fighting a grin since he walked in.
Hunter’s unfazed by any of it.
“You sure you don’t want to try one of our muffins?” she asks, smiling too big. “They’re cranberry orange today. Your favorite. Baked fresh so they’re still warm.”
“No thank you,” he says, voice low and even as he digs into his wallet for a five-dollar bill.
“You know . . . you could try a latte sometime,” she pushes, glancing at his hands like she wants him to pick her up along with his drink. She’s a tiny thing. I bet he could easily hoist her up with one arm and throw her over his shoulder like a bag of seed. The thought of it sends a quick sear of hot jealousy through me, so I shove it out of my mind as quickly as possible. “Change it up a little?”
Hunter shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m good.”
Behind the safety of my coffee cup, I continue to observe their exchange.
“Two dollars and forty-five cents,” she tells him, her smile absent now.
He hands her the five and tells her to keep the change.
A minute later, she slides him his drink. He turns, scanning the quaint little café once—eyes gliding past the pastry case, the tables, the windows—and landing on me.
But only for a second.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t do anything that could remotely count as a greeting—not that he owes me one. But there’s a flicker of recognition, a shift in his jaw—causing my stomach to somersault. And then it’s gone, leaving me to wonder if I imagined it.
He struts past me and takes a seat near the door, back to the wall, out of my line of sight, but I feel him there, his presence like gravity pulling at the edges of my space.
I tap the side of my cup, heart suddenly louder in my chest than it was two minutes ago.
Maybe it’s the caffeine buzzing through me like a live wire.
Or maybe it’s him.
God, he’d make the best romance lead. Mysterious and aloof. Gruff and unapologetically handsome. The kind of man who’d soften for a woman he never saw coming.
I’m suddenly feeling . . . inspired . . . again.
My fingers ache for a pen that isn’t there, for my sunflower notebook. I need to start bringing it with me.
I reach for my phone, opening the Notes app, and I’m well on my way to becoming lost in thought when the door jingles again and an elderly woman shuffles in, moving slow but steady with a floral canvas tote slung over one arm and a cardigan draped over the other. She reminds me of someone who smells like powder and peppermint, the kind of woman who bakes the best banana bread in town and never misses a church bulletin.