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)
The bells chime on the door once more, stealing Mrs. Harrison’s attention, and she waves to a trio of brightly dressed, silver-haired women who light up when they see her.
“I’m so sorry, but I’m meeting some friends for book club. It was lovely meeting you, Wren. And welcome back.” She leaves me and heads toward her friends.
I turn back to my cooling coffee, her words swimming in my head yet not clicking into place. This man is nothing but walking contradictions. I think of how standoffish he was to the butcher and barista, how cold he was to me, and how he watched me from the top of my driveway but drove off before I could introduce myself . . . but he saved this woman’s farm? Cleaned up her spilled coffee and got her another one?
If Hunter’s my neighbor, then I at least owe him a proper introduction—and maybe even an apology for accidentally buying that land out from underneath him.
We don’t have to be best friends, but if it’s just the two of us (and Atticus) for miles and miles, it’d be nice to get acquainted.
Especially since I’m finally home.
And I don’t plan on leaving ever again.
I’m halfway home when my phone chimes with a text. My stomach plummets when I see who it’s from.
Nick: Wren . . . call me when you get a chance please. I know you probably hate me but it’s important.
With my heart in my chest, I pull over and catch my breath. I hadn’t heard from Nick since he left me the day of the wedding. He wouldn’t even come get his things—he sent his parents, who are easily some of the kindest people I’ve ever met, to do his bidding. His mother sobbed while she boxed up his clothes, and his father’s face was laced in unspoken apologies—not that he owed me any. They were wonderful people, and I miss them more than I miss Nick.
But Nick can wait a lifetime for all I care.
I won’t be calling him.
Not now, not ever.
7
Hunter
The house is quiet.
Same as it always is.
Just as I like it.
Late lunch today—if you can even call it that. Standing over the sink, I down two bologna-and-white-bread sandwiches, then wash them down with a cold glass of milk. I’ve been in the field since just after six this morning, trying to get ahead of a storm system that might roll in tomorrow. Only took a break because I’ve got a seed sensor that’s been blinking red all morning and I need a part from town.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and grab the mail from the entry table—mostly junk, a flyer for a bull auction, and an open house invite from some new co-op. I’m sorting through the rest of it when I hear the distinct crunch of tires on gravel.
I don’t get visitors.
Not up here, on top of the hill.
Not unless they’re lost or trying to sell me something.
I walk to the front window, pull the curtain back, and see her.
Blondie: the land thief.
Maybe it’s not fair to call her that. I can’t imagine Rich told her he already had an arrangement with me. He was probably too busy salivating at all the cash he was going to walk away with. But still.
It isn’t her . . . it’s everything she represents.
Her glossy black SUV is idling in my driveway, and she’s halfway up the walk, holding a clear container wrapped in twine. A pale-yellow sundress flutters around her knees, and she’s got a messy knot of hair piled on top of her head like she wrestled with it and lost.
I stay frozen a second too long, wondering if I should pretend I’m not home, but she’s already on the porch and my truck is parked out front.
She knocks three times, and I watch from my side of the window as she fusses with her skirt and brushes a loose strand of hair off her forehead. This woman looks too pretty for her own good, too dolled up for a weekday afternoon, that’s for sure. If she’s here to hit on me, she’s wasting her time.
Pushing a breath through flared nostrils, I open the door.
“Hi,” she says with a cautious smile, lifting the container. “I’m Wren—your new neighbor. I think we’ve seen each other around a couple of times, so I wanted to introduce myself.”
I blink. Slow.
“I brought cookies,” she adds with a disarming yet nervous smile before gazing up at me with her big doe eyes. God, she’s adorable. And it catches me off guard for a second. But I snap out of it. She’s just attractive, is all. Doesn’t mean I need to go full idiot every time I see her.
She offers me the container, which smells faintly of oatmeal and peanut butter.
“You made these?” I ask, taking the warm dish in my palms. Traditionally I believe I’m the one supposed to bring a welcoming gift to a new neighbor. “For me?”