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)
“Atticus and I have discussed water safety several times,” she says sweetly. “But thank you. I appreciate the reminder.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “How’re you adjusting?”
She glances up at me again with those dark blues. We’re so close now I can see the little white starbursts in her irises. They’re so hypnotic, I almost have to remind myself to blink.
“Better than I expected,” she says with an exhale that borders on dreamy. She blinks, unhurried through a thick fringe of lashes. Does she do this with everyone?
There’s a tightness in my chest that crawls to my throat, and my feet are anchored in place. I need to go, but I’m not ready to watch her leave just yet. The way she fills my entry with literal sunshine, cookies, and an intoxicatingly sweet scent, the way she half smiles and gives me those playful eyes but isn’t overtly throwing herself at me like everyone else tends to do—I have to admit, she’s nothing short of captivating.
I gesture toward the cookies. “So is this some kind of research for your next book?”
She rolls her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You moved back to your hometown. Bought a farmhouse. Now you’re baking cookies for the bachelor farmer next door . . .”
“Okay, yeah,” she laughs. “Fair point when you put it that way. But in my defense, everything about you is literally a character out of a romance novel.”
Out of all the things women have said to me in my forty-two years—that’s not been one of them.
I smirk before I can stop myself.
She watches me, half amused. “Well, look at that. You do smile.”
I fix my face. “Not if I can help it.”
“If we were in one of my books right now, this would be the scene where I decide to make it my mission to make you smile again.”
“Please don’t.”
“Why? Do you hate smiling or something?” Her eyes sparkle under the daylight that filters in around us.
She’s flirting.
She’s definitely flirting.
But I shut it down.
“Don’t romanticize the country too much,” I say, reaching for the doorknob, though what I really want to tell her is not to romanticize me. “It’s not all fireflies and harvest moons and wraparound porches.”
She steps outside and turns back. “I’m a romance writer. I can romanticize anything.”
“Sounds like a good way to get your heart trampled on.” I lean against the doorframe, taking her in like it’s the last time I’m going to see her but knowing damn well it won’t be since we’re neighbors now.
“See you around, Hunter.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice that wasn’t there before. As she turns to leave, the wind catches her hair.
I stare at the cookies.
Then back at the door.
Then down at my chest, where something unfamiliar has started to stir—something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
I’m stuck in a daydream of my own when she’s suddenly traipsing back to the front door. She came back . . . but why?
“I’m sorry,” she says, half breathless with an apologetic smile on her lips. “I have to be honest about something. I didn’t just come here to bring you cookies and introduce myself.”
The moonshine cocktail of emotions I was starting to feel a second ago turns me stone-cold sober. Only thing worse than a liar is someone with an ulterior motive.
I hook my fingers in my belt loops and cock my head. “I’m listening.”
“At the coffee shop the other day, Mrs. Harrison made a face when I told her I bought the Sanders place.” She bites her lip. “It made me feel like I did something wrong. And then she told me you’d always planned on buying it. Is that true?”
I press my lips flat and exhale through my nose. “Yeah. It is.”
The gorgeous land thief’s eyes soften. “I had no idea.”
“You paid twice what that property’s worth. I bet you didn’t know that either.”
Her mouth opens for a second but nothing comes out. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything but a part of me is still bitter about the whole thing. Doesn’t help she said she didn’t intend on ever selling either.
“Like I said,” I add, “I’d be happy to take it off your hands anytime.”
Squinting, she angles her face to the side, studying me. “Why do you want that property so bad? What’s so special about it?”
“Story for another day.” I use her words.
“Maybe I don’t want to wait for another day to hear the story.” She uses mine.
“Sorry, honey.” I step out on the front porch and shut the door behind me. I’ve got things to do, and this day’s not getting any younger. “But you’re gonna have to.”
8
Wren
I hear the trailer before I see it—the low rumble of my stepdad’s Ram truck, then soon after the soft clink of a halter buckle. I step onto the porch, the sight waiting for me so wholesome it could be a scene straight out of a Hallmark movie.