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)
I exhale and pray he doesn’t see the relief wafting off me in real time. As a romance author, I romanticize almost everything. It’s part of the job, it’s second nature. Safe to say Hunter’s not pining over this woman.
“When you’re young,” he continues, miraculously without any prodding, “you always think you have all the time in the world.”
“Right? It’s like you blink and a year goes by. You blink again, then five years go by.”
“You focus on work, you keep thinking it’ll happen when it’s meant to happen.” He rubs the pad of his thumb against his glass, leaving a smudge in its place that he studies. “Soon all your friends start pairing off. You get older. The dating pool gets thinner. Pretty soon the pool is so thin it’s not even worth taking a dip.”
“Do you ever date?” I ask. “Now, I mean?”
He chuffs. “Dating market’s pretty bleak here. Even if it wasn’t . . . I don’t know. Seems like all the good ones are taken.”
“Hold on. I’ve seen the way women look at you in public,” I say. “You’re probably Colton Valley’s most eligible bachelor. You could have anyone you want. You can’t not know that.”
He chuckles. Actually fully chuckles. And drags his hand along his beard, giving it a good scratch. “You’re blowing smoke.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Hunter. You can’t be this good looking and this humble and have a hero complex. What’s really going on?” My skin is flushed warm from the wine, and my entire body is electric. I angle closer to him, resting my elbow on the back of the swing and cocking my cheek against my hand as I give him my full attention. “What’s the real story, huh?”
“There is no real story.”
“There’s always a real story.” With that, I rise. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m getting more wine. You’re not allowed to leave until you give me the unabridged version.”
“You realize some of us have to work tomorrow, right?” he calls after me as I head inside.
I pretend not to hear him.
When I return, freshly uncorked wine bottle in hand, he’s standing by the broken porch steps, hands shoved in his pockets. “Generator should keep you good ’til morning. I’ll come back for it once the power’s restored.”
He watches as the excitement that resided on my face mere moments ago fades.
His eyes hold mine. Something shifts between us.
“Really?” I ask. “You’re just going to . . . leave? We were just about to do a deep dive into your dating life.”
“I told you there’s no story,” he says. “And I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”
My jaw turns slack, then I purse my lips. I thought we were connecting. He was opening up. Laughing. Cracking jokes. I know it’s late, but it’s not that late. It’s going to be too wet to plant tomorrow, so he shouldn’t have to get up before sunrise.
He holds my gaze for a second that lingers a little longer than it should. I say nothing in hopes that he’ll fill the silence with the words it looks like he wants to say.
“Night, Wren.” He trots down the steps, his boots heavy on the cracked wood as he disappears into the muggy darkness.
No fanfare.
No promises.
Just diesel and distance and that damn ache that settles in deeper the longer he stays just out of reach.
15
Hunter
It’s been decades since I sat on that porch swing. I almost couldn’t bring myself to do it either. But somewhere between my hesitation and her insistence, it felt like something I had to do. And by the time she poured me a glass of wine and looked at me like I was the only man in the world—or at least in her world—I wasn’t thinking about that porch, that swing, that house, or that land.
Just . . . her.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I ease the truck into gear and head back up the hill. Wine’s still ambling through my veins, but it’s not the reason my hands feel so restless on the wheel.
I shouldn’t have left.
I should’ve stayed on that swing, let the silence stretch between us a little longer, maybe even said what was really on my mind for once.
Or hell—kissed her. Lord knows every part of me wanted to.
It’s been a while since I felt soft lips like those on mine, and I could easily imagine the way her fingertips would feel stroking through my beard, grazing the side of my face.
That look in her eyes, the way she tilted her chin and leaned a little closer—she would’ve let me kiss her. I’m certain of that.
But I didn’t.
Because it’s easier to leave than to stay. Easier to pretend I didn’t feel what I felt the second she smiled at me with that glass of wine in her hand and the night breeze lifting her hair like something out of a dream I’ve never let myself have.