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)
Truitt leans forward, expression more somber now. “Seriously. You all right, boss? You’re probably just antsy not being in the field. We all are.”
That’d be the easy answer, but it’s not the truth.
Because the truth is . . . I’m antsy because she’s in my head.
Every damn second of the day, Wren Jensen invades my every thought.
That knowing half smile.
The stubborn tilt of her chin when she’s challenging me.
The intoxicating scent of her hair when she sat too close last night, pouring me that second glass of wine on her porch.
While I’ve been planting corn and beans, she’s planted herself inside me and started taking root without permission—like a weed I can’t control.
Only she’s not a weed.
She’s more like a pretty flower—the ones that grow like weeds. I think of the sunflowers my mother used to love. She had a whole garden of ’em when I was a kid. They made her happy, the way they always tilted toward the light and grew in any kind of condition.
My mind wanders to the way Wren looked when I pulled up, all curled up in that swing with a book in her lap, her bare feet tucked under her like she’s always belonged here.
It’s distracting as hell, knowing she’s half a mile away from me every night.
“Maybe he’s got a woman.” Cal lifts his brows like he’s about to make a joke out of it, and I suppose it would be funny as hell to them, seeing me focused on anything other than my operation. “I mean, that’d explain everything. Grumpier than usual. Little bags under the eyes. Walking around like he hasn’t slept in a week. Women will do that to ya if you’re not careful.”
I shoot him a look. “Don’t you have a boom to work on or something?”
Cal throws up his hands. “Just saying. You’ve got that dazed look about you. Like a man who’s either falling for someone or trying like hell not to.”
I don’t answer.
I just know that the second I saw her hauling that glass dish up my porch steps, I forgot how to breathe. She’s got this way about her—soft edges, sharp tongue, eyes that see more than they should. She doesn’t just walk into a room, she settles into it. Fills it. Makes it warmer. Turns heads and probably doesn’t even realize it. There’s an aura around her, something I’ve never noticed in anyone else.
That said, I never wanted company up on that hill. Didn’t want a neighbor. Sure as hell didn’t want a woman complicating my simple little life. And yet now, when things go quiet, when the machines shut down and the world pauses for a beat—she’s the only thing I can think about.
Wren Jensen.
Her name’s like a song stuck on repeat, one I can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try.
18
Wren
The generator clatters harder than it should when I set it down on the concrete floor of his shop.
“Here,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans without looking at him. “It’s all yours. Thanks again.”
Hunter doesn’t move. Just watches me from across the space, arms crossed, shirt clinging to his chest from the heat of the day, jaw tight like he’s grinding back something he can’t say.
Typical.
I take a step toward the open garage door, late day sun streaking in sideways. After Atticus came home from day camp, he requested to go to my mom’s for tater tot casserole—my least favorite meal of all time because we ate it at least once a week growing up. I told my parents I had some errands to run and I’d be back to get him after a while, then my mom insisted on having Atticus stay the night.
“Wren,” Hunter says.
I pause, hand hovering in midair like I might wave goodbye.
“Yes?” I don’t look at him. I can’t. I don’t want to get my hopes up again, and that tends to happen every time we lock eyes.
“You mad?”
I slowly turn to face him, arms folded tight across my chest, heart pounding but gaze averted. “Why would I be mad?”
There’s a heavy pause, then he shifts his weight like he wants to move but doesn’t.
“I don’t know,” he says. I feel him studying me. “You seem . . . different.”
The way I see it, I can play dumb, brush it off, and get out of here—or I can tell him how it made me feel when he left so abruptly after we were having what I thought was a nice conversation.
Option one feels safest. Option two makes me look like a fool for thinking he was remotely interested in me.
“You got somewhere to be?” he rubs the back of his neck, still watching me. “I’ve got some beer in the fridge. Was just about to have one.”
“I always have somewhere to be.”