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 want to stop writing about you, but every time I stop, I find myself right back here, a blue-inked pen pressed hard against these lined pages, my handwriting barely able to keep up with my mind because it’s moving so fast.
Tonight you said you pegged me all wrong.
I’m beginning to wonder, though, if it’s the other way around.
And I’m not sure if that excites me . . . or scares me.
—Wren
25
Hunter
“Chapter fifty-two. Charlie.” A woman’s voice plays over my AirPods.
Earlier this morning, I got a wild hair to listen to one of Wren’s romance books on audio. I’m in this damned tractor all day, every day, so I’ve got plenty of time.
The narrator’s reading from The Summer She Forgot, some big-city tale with a prickly heroine and a broken billionaire hero with secrets that are yet to be revealed. I downloaded it this morning out of morbid curiosity, figuring I’d get bored after five minutes and switch back to my usual lineup of ag podcasts and classic rock. Instead, I’m fifty-two chapters deep and fighting the urge to slow my planting pace just so the story doesn’t end before I’m ready.
The narrator’s voice is smooth and warm, like early coffee or fresh linen on sun-baked skin. She paces the narration like she’s lived every syllable, coaxing each emotion to the surface and dragging me along for the ride.
“He kissed her like he was sorry. Like he’d waited his whole life to be that close to someone, and he was terrified of getting it wrong.”
My grip on the throttle tightens.
Jesus.
How is that sexy and sad at the same time? It stirs something in me, like Wren wrote that line just for me, though I know she didn’t.
I’ve got one mile left of this field before I have to move equipment. Hopefully another week or so of planting after that. No more long days living in these machines. No more excuses to keep my distance. And maybe that’s a good thing.
Or maybe it’s the worst damn idea I’ve had in years.
Because I’m already too fixated on Wren.
And she’s the kind of woman you don’t let yourself want if you plan on keeping your life uncomplicated.
But I do want her.
More than I want to admit.
Hell, I’ve been half-crazed since she showed up on my porch in that yellow sundress with those delicious cookies, big doe eyes, and that hopeful smile. She called herself my “new neighbor,” like that was supposed to soften the fact that she bought the one piece of land I spent years trying to acquire. But the moment she handed me that warm Tupperware, I almost forgot all about it. Forgot about planting. Forgot about Rich. Forgot about how I don’t trust most people on principle.
And Atticus?
That kid’s a trip. Funny little dude with a big personality and a heart the size of Nebraska. We planted some wildflower seeds together last weekend while Wren was doing some more unpacking. Said he wanted to “help the bees.” I don’t know a single five-year-old who gives a shit about pollinators, but there he was—tiny cowboy boots, dirt under his nails, yelling at a bumblebee like it was late to work.
I like the kid.
He makes me feel . . . lighter.
You can’t fake that kind of joy.
He reminds me not to take life so seriously.
If I didn’t already know better, I’d say he’s getting to me, which means I need to be careful. Wren’s been through enough. She doesn’t need some lonely farmer playing hero just because he’s bored and emotionally constipated.
“She didn’t trust anyone, and yet she let him touch her like she was already broken. Like maybe if he held her tight enough, the pieces would fit together again.”
I shift in my seat, running a hand across my mouth.
Damn.
She’s good.
Too good.
I try to picture Wren at her desk, cross-legged in front of some open window, pen between her teeth and laptop glowing, highlighting all those pretty features I’ve studied more times than I care to admit. I bet she writes barefoot and in pajamas. I bet she hums to herself when she gets stuck. I bet she laughs at her own jokes.
And I bet no one’s told her lately just how talented she is.
How magnetic.
How real.
I don’t even have her number—not that I’d know what to say if I did. I’d probably come off gruff and awkward. “Hey, I liked your cookies. And I like your voice. And your kid. And the way you wear your hair like it’s no big deal but it is.”
No.
Better to play it cool. Maybe find an excuse to drop by. See if she needs help fixing her garden fence or hanging a screen door. Something neighborly. Something safe.
“You can’t love someone into healing. But maybe, if you’re lucky, you can make them feel less alone while they figure it out.”