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)
“You sure? Last week she spit out the apple oat ones.”
“That’s because I fed them to her after she’d already eaten carrots. Her palate was probably tired.”
I try not to laugh. He’s serious. So serious I can’t even correct his use of the word “palate.”
We’re halfway down the aisle when Atticus suddenly freezes, eyes locked on something—or someone—behind me.
Then he’s off like a shot. “Hey! You’re the guy from the river!”
I turn just as Atticus barrels into Hunter McCrae, grinning like he just found out Santa is real and lives next door.
I haven’t seen him for almost a week now. Not since he showed up at my place late that night, after Natalie left. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought of him every hour of every day that’s passed since then.
Hunter’s holding a bag of fencing staples and looking mildly stunned, though not annoyed. If anything, he seems . . . charmed.
“Oh, hey, buddy,” he says, offering a small smile. “You doing okay? Staying away from that river?”
Atticus nods fast. “Yeah! My mom says I was being reckless, but I didn’t know it was gonna be deep there. You saved me. That was so cool. You’re like a cowboy or a hero or something.”
I catch up, heart suddenly in my throat. “Atticus . . .”
Hunter glances at me, then back at my son. “You got a pony, right? What’s her name again?”
“Sugarplum.” Atticus beams. “She’s light tan with a white stripe on her nose and I brush her every day, and I’m trying to teach her to bow when I say ‘majesty.’”
Hunter lets out a small chuckle, then squats to Atticus’s level.
“You ever ride her?” he asks.
Atticus shakes his head. “Not yet. Mom says I’m not ready.”
Hunter lifts a brow and glances at me, like he’s waiting for confirmation. I give a tiny shrug.
“We don’t have tack yet,” I say. “And I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“She’s kinda short,” Atticus adds. “I think I could just climb on the fence then jump on her back, but Mom says it’s not safe without a saddle and stuff.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hunter says, eyeing me for approval. “If you want, I could show you how to saddle her up sometime. I’ve got an old kid-size one in the barn. Might even still fit.”
Atticus gasps like Hunter just offered him a ticket to the moon. “Really?!”
Hunter stands, eyes shifting to mine. “If it’s okay with your mother, that is.”
I hesitate.
Every instinct in me screams to say no, to keep a clean line between what’s safe and what could potentially wreck our hearts all over again. But Atticus is looking at me like this is the best thing that’s happened to him all week. And truth be told, I could use the help with the damn pony because I have no idea what I’m doing.
But still . . . I know how this goes. It starts with a few lessons and ends with Atticus crying into his pillow because someone else left, because someone else promised things they didn’t mean to.
Atticus clasps his little hands together and gives me a pleading look.
“Sure,” I give in. “That’d be . . . nice.”
Atticus explodes into chatter, asking Hunter about sugar cubes and hoof oil and whether Sugarplum can be trained to pull a cart. He’s clearly been watching too many YouTube videos, and that’s on me.
I let him drift toward the feed bins, distracted by the rows of colorful bags, before I turn to Hunter.
“What are you doing?” I keep my voice low.
His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“With Atticus.”
His mouth tightens. “I don’t understand what you’re implying. He came up to me. I wasn’t going to ignore him.”
“You’re charming him,” I say. “You’re using him to get to me.”
Hunter blinks like I just slapped him. “What?”
I fold my arms. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know how this works. You’re good with him. He likes you. You’re trying to use the horse thing to be around me more. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
His expression shifts—something raw and frustrated flashing across it.
“I’m not that guy,” he says quietly. “I don’t use people. Especially not kids.”
He looks down the aisle toward Atticus, then back at me. “You really think I’d do that?”
“I’ve seen it before. More than once.”
He exhales hard through his nose, like he’s trying to keep something in. He almost looks physically wounded, making me second-guess my harsh accusation. I’m on the verge of apologizing, my mind dancing between justifying my protectiveness versus being open to the idea of Hunter just trying to be a good neighbor.
But before I can make up my mind, he’s striding off, ruffling Atticus’s hair as he walks by. He mentions something about how he’ll show him how to tack up a saddle next week if the weather holds. And then he’s gone—heading to the checkout, leaving me standing in the aisle like I’m the one who just crossed a line.