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 grunt a quick thank-you anyway.
“You sick?” Cal asks, voice quieter now.
“No,” I shoot back.
“You, uh, hittin’ the sauce, boss?” Truitt narrows his eyes like he’s about to stage an intervention.
“No,” I clip.
They exchange a glance.
“Is the farm in trouble?” Cal asks.
“No,” I say again. Firmer this time.
They’re quiet for a beat, like they’re waiting for something else. A crack in the armor. Some sign of weakness. Elaboration of any kind.
I give them nothing.
“Big day today. Believe it or not, fields dried out overnight,” I say, already walking to the door. “Get moving, boys.”
I head to my truck, pop the door, and linger for a second. The sun’s barely over the trees, light stretching across the fields in long, gold fingers. Dew’s still clinging to the grass.
And all I can think about is her.
I look toward the house.
Her curtains are closed. No sign of movement. Not that I’d know what to do if there was.
We left things awkward last night. Rushed and breathless and tangled and unfinished. I didn’t say much after—not because I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t know what to say or how to say what I really wanted to say.
Looking back, that was disrespectful of me.
She deserves more than that. She deserves better than that.
I just don’t know how to give it to her.
But I will. I’ll learn.
Even if I have to figure it out the hard way.
Because she’s already mine—she just doesn’t know it yet.
20
Wren
The town square looks different in the morning. Quieter. Softer around the edges. The shops are just starting to open, and there’s a hush over everything, like the town hasn’t had its first cup of coffee yet.
I park in front of Iris & Ivy, Natalie Dinsmore’s boutique, and take a second before I get out. Atticus is at day camp until four, which means I have seven hours of me-time and zero excuses to avoid being social.
I’m also in desperate need of a distraction because I’ve spent the past sixteen hours doing my best not to think about what happened in the shop with Hunter McCrae last night.
I failed, miserably.
Because it’s all I’ve been thinking about.
The way he looked at me—like I was something he hadn’t let himself want in a long time. The way he touched me—like it wasn’t about sex: it was about need. The way he plunged himself deep inside me, urgent and punitive—like he was almost upset with himself for wanting me the way that he did. Of course, I don’t know that any of this is true . . . I’m an author. I make up stories for a living. But last night could’ve easily been a scene from one of my books, and if he were the hero in my book, that’s what he’d have been thinking.
I drag in a long, slow breath and let it go.
It was a release. That’s all.
Nothing more.
I remind myself of that again as I walk through the glass door of Natalie’s shop.
A little bell tinkles above me. The air inside smells like eucalyptus and vanilla, and Natalie herself is behind the counter, adjusting a mannequin in a gauzy linen romper.
She glances up, eyes lighting as a mile-wide grin captures her face. “Wren. Jensen. Shut. Up.”
“Hey, stranger.” I stride her way, laughing. “It’s been a minute.”
“A minute? More like fifteen years,” she says, breezing around the counter to give me a hug that smells like expensive shampoo and argan oil lotion. “God, you look amazing. You’re even prettier than you were in your twenties, and I didn’t think that was possible.”
I smile. “Oh, stop. You’re too sweet. And you? This place is adorable.”
She waves a hand like she’s swatting away a compliment but beams anyway. “Thanks. I’ve been open about two years now. I’m trying to keep it small and curated—you know, little capsule pieces, indie brands. Colton Valley doesn’t always know what to do with me, but they’re coming around. I like to treat every customer like they’re my only customer. Everyone who walks in here gets the full Natalie treatment. Speaking of, could I interest you in some sparkling mineral water? Maybe some oolong jasmine tea?”
“I love that,” I say, running my fingers along a display of straw hats and linen scarves. “And I’d love some tea. I might be here a while . . . you’ve got quite the place here and I haven’t really shopped for myself in ages.”
The last thing I bought was a seersucker dress I intended to wear on my honeymoon with Nick. After everything went down, buying myself things I didn’t need suddenly didn’t feel like a priority.
“I miss when you used to style me back in high school,” I say, gently inspecting a rack of blouses. “I never had to think about what to wear. You’d come over on Sundays and put together all my outfits for the week.”