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)
He chuffs, peering my way through his dark lashes.
It’s been a long time since I was able to crack a dumb joke or come up with something witty on the fly. The longer I’m back in Colton Valley, the more it feels like my old self is coming back to me in pieces. That, and despite Hunter’s guardedness, I can’t help but feel unguarded in his presence.
It’s a kind of safety I’ve never felt with anyone else before, one I can’t quite pinpoint but also couldn’t deny if I tried.
“Were you close to your parents?” I ask.
He takes a long drink. “When they were still around, yes.”
“You ever been married?” I ask.
He turns his head, brow lifting. “Are you launching some kind of FBI investigation? What’s with all the questions?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I press my palm against my chest, feigning shock. “Did you think we were just going to awkwardly drink wine in silence and watch the storm roll out?”
“Yeah.” He turns to me, his eyes drinking me in. “That’s exactly what I thought we were doing.”
I gently nudge my elbow against his bicep. “Something you should know about me is I’m very curious and I ask a lot of questions, and if that’s going to be a problem for you, then maybe you should stop rescuing me and we should go back to being strangers.”
The tiniest glimmer resides in his eyes. I see it, even in the dark, under the faint glow of my book light sitting off to the side. Amusement, maybe? Mutual curiosity? He easily could’ve turned down the wine and gone home. Lord knows it’s late.
But he didn’t.
He stayed.
I top off his glass and clear my throat. “Okay, where were we? Oh, right. Have you ever been married?”
He hesitates, though I think it’s for dramatic effect. “Who wants to know?”
“Don’t deflect. Just answer the question, Hunter.”
“Never. You?” His gaze diverts my way.
“Never.”
“Why not?”
I feign shock again. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m the one asking the questions here. You’ll get your turn.”
He rolls his eyes and takes a sip, hiding a smile that’s creeping across his lips. I don’t know what this man has against smiling, but I wish he’d let it go. He’s a gorgeous specimen of rugged man, but he’s beautiful when he smiles. And I bet he has no idea.
I refill my glass. The bottle’s getting lower by the minute, and we’re only getting started. It’s late. Atticus will be up early. But I don’t want this night to end.
“I was engaged,” I say. “To the wrong guy. He called it off the day of our wedding. The end.”
It’s all I want to say about it for now. I hold my breath, waiting for an onslaught of questions I don’t feel like answering because Nick is irrelevant.
“I thought you were a storyteller,” he says. “That’s a horrible story.”
“Not every story is worth telling.”
“Well, it’s his loss,” Hunter says, taking a slow drink. “Because look who got to keep that casserole dish.”
I snort mid-sip, wine almost shooting out my nose.
He does have a sense of humor.
“What’s your story?” I redirect the conversation back to him, where it belongs. “How does an attractive, successful, confident, capable man like yourself end up single at forty-two? Why hasn’t anyone snatched you up yet?”
“The ass-kissing is not necessary. It’s actually insulting.”
“What? How?”
“You think a little flattery’s going to get me to open up to you about my personal life?”
“No, not at all . . .” I frown. “I was just describing you the way I see you.”
His lips press flat and the slightest wince paints his face, as if I’ve struck a sore spot.
A rumble of thunder is followed by an endless bout of silence.
After a bit more consideration, he shrugs. “Just never met the right one, I guess.”
I drag in a lungful of petrichor, trying my hardest to read between those lines. I bet there’s a whole novel there. Pages upon pages of memories. Of near misses. Of broken hearts. A man doesn’t run a massive farming empire only to live in a huge house on top of a hill, miles from the nearest neighbor . . . only to spend his life alone.
“Have you had girlfriends?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ve had girlfriends.”
“And?”
His dark brows lift. “And what?”
“And what happened?”
He takes a swig of wine. “Nothing. Which is why I never married any of them.”
“They couldn’t have all been that bad.”
He draws in a breath. “You’re right. There was one almost.”
My heart catches in my throat. I love that he’s sharing this, but I also hate it at the same time because now whenever I look at him, I’m going to see a man pining after the one who got away and not the stubborn, hyperindependent curmudgeon waiting for the right one to come along.
“She cheated with a buddy of mine,” he adds, zero emotion in his voice. “And as you so eloquently stated about your situation . . . the end.”