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)
After we hang up, I sit at my desk and pull out my sunflower notebook. My pen glides across the page before I can second-guess myself.
Hunter—
You’re inspiring me in ways I don’t know how to explain.
Every time I see you, I get inspired. Last time, you made me want to write a scene where the hero looks at the heroine like she might be worth the trouble. I imagine a female main character who feels like she’s always been too much and not enough at the same time, and a hero who sets out to show her she’s perfect . . . perfect for him.
I wish I could thank you for giving me my spark back, but I worry you’d see that as an open invitation. My life’s starting to feel a lot less complicated lately, and I’m not looking to change that.
But dreaming about it? About you? It’s enough—for now.
—Wren
I set the notebook aside, open my laptop, and pull up a blank Word doc. The cursor blinks at me, a quiet dare. Within moments, a story begins to come together in my mind, bit by bit, scene by scene, piece by piece. A broody farmer. A romance writer with writer’s block. She writes him letters he’ll never read, and he affects her in ways he’ll never know.
I title the document Unsent Love Letters.
And I write the first chapter.
33
Hunter
I wasn’t planning to eat in town today.
Hell, I wasn’t planning to eat at all.
But I’ve been running on caffeine and fumes since before dawn, and the thought of one more gas station breakfast sandwich makes me want to drive headfirst into a ditch.
The diner’s half full when I walk in. Smells like bacon grease and eggs over easy—the kind of scent that sticks to your skin until the next shower. I nod to the hostess, who tells me to sit anywhere. I’m halfway to my usual booth when I see her.
Wren.
Sitting by the window, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys while a half-eaten BLT and some soggy fries rest on a plate beside her. She’s in some kind of sundress and a denim jacket, hair piled on top of her head like she wrestled it into place and gave up halfway through.
I must’ve been staring too long, because it doesn’t take long for her to glance up, catch me, and wave me over.
I tell myself I should grab my usual booth. Eat in peace. Stick to the plan. But I’m already moving toward her before the thought finishes.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, her mouth curving into this soft little smile that makes me feel stupid for even hesitating. There’s always something so inviting about her, and I’m not convinced she realizes that. She’s got this aura, this orbit that pulls you in like gravity.
I slide into the seat across from her. “Didn’t take you for a diner kind of girl.”
“They’ve got the best BLTs I’ve ever had,” she says, nudging the plate like evidence. “Five bucks. Can you believe that? Also, I needed a change of scenery.”
“What are you working on?”
She hesitates, then tilts her screen so I can see the title: Unsent Love Letters.
I arch a brow. “That your next book?”
She nods, eyes lit like the Fourth of July and Christmas at the same time.
The waitress comes by, sets a coffee in front of me before I even ask—small-town perks—and takes my order for my usual double burger and fries. When she leaves, Wren closes her laptop and leans in, like she’s settling in for something longer than small talk.
“What’s on the docket for you today?” she asks.
We end up sitting there for two hours.
In that time, we talk about everything. Places she’s traveled—Prague, Rome, some beach in Greece I can’t pronounce. She lights up talking about it, her eyes flashing, hands moving like she’s trying to physically paint the pictures for me.
I tell her I’ve never traveled much. Always figured I’d go someday, but never saw the point in going alone. I don’t even like going to movies alone.
“Places like that . . .” I say, tracing the rim of my coffee mug, “seems like the kind of thing you share with someone.”
She nods like she gets it, like she understands the quiet parts of me I don’t say out loud.
“I’ve traveled alone and with friends and partners,” she says. “People like to romanticize traveling solo, but it’s so much better to share those experiences with someone. Makes them more meaningful, I think.”
Our eyes hold for what feels like forever, as if we’re having a secondary, silent conversation or secretly imagining a world in which we’re traveling together.
I clear my throat and change the subject, steering the focus to Colton Valley and how much it’s changed since we were kids. She changes the subject to my career, asking questions like she’s doing research for her next book. There’s no way she finds any of this compelling, but she sure seems convincing. I tell her the best part of farming for me is planting season—even though it’s brutal. The hours, the risk, the weather never cooperating. But there’s something about starting from nothing and watching it grow.