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)
By the time I pull up to her place, the sun’s starting to hang lower, streaking the sky in oranges and pinks. Atticus is in the corral, riding Sugarplum in lazy circles, singing to himself.
“Hey, cowpoke,” I call. “Why don’t you head in? About time to eat.”
He waves, beaming, his boots sticking straight out the sides of the pony before he slides off. I need to adjust those stirrups again.
Inside, Wren’s finishing up dinner, the house warm and cozy, smelling like garlic and something I’d probably eat three plates of if given the chance—only because it’d put a smile on her face and let me spend even more time with her.
“Hi, neighbor,” she says, tossing me a glance when she peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Atticus, please go wash up for dinner.”
There’s a box on the counter, worn cardboard with peeling tape, filled to the brim with dusty old toy tractors and miniature combines.
“Atticus found these on the top shelf of his closet,” she says when she notices me looking. “They look ancient.”
I walk over, peering inside. The second I see them, I feel the color drain from my face.
I know these.
The green John Deere 4020 with the chipped paint. The bright red International Harvester grain truck missing a wheel. I had the same ones as a kid—until they got lost when we moved.
Or so I thought.
Because that’s my name, scribbled in faded Sharpie on the bottom of one.
I’m trying to think of what the hell to say, how to even begin explaining this weird twist of fate, when there’s a knock at the door.
Wren frowns.
“You expecting someone?” I ask.
She shakes her head, then strides to the door. A moment later she returns to the kitchen, Will Cunningham and his wife, Trish, in tow.
Trish smiles apologetically. “We were in the area, thought we’d stop by. Hope we’re not interrupting.”
Wren glances back at me with a wince that implies she had no idea this was going to happen. I shrug and smile, giving her a look that implies this is par for the course with small-town living.
“You guys wanna stay for dinner?” Wren asks. “We were just about to eat. Plenty to go around.”
“We don’t want to impose . . .” Trish says, looking to Will.
“I do.” Will rubs his belly and takes a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m starving. What are we eating?”
Dinner is . . . pleasant. Awkward but pleasant. Will talks my ear off about the farm and various pieces of John Deere equipment before asking if I’ve upgraded to the new 8RX yet or if I’m still holding on to my older models. I humor him, mostly because he reminds me of every retired farmer who thinks the latest technology is witchcraft but still wants to know all about it.
Wren watches us interact, sipping her wine, eyes shimmering with amusement like she can’t believe I’m putting up with this.
Afterward, we all head outside. The sun’s lower now, horizon bleeding gold and orange, and Atticus hops back onto Sugarplum, looking like he’s found his entire purpose in life. He’s probably gone in about a hundred circles already. He needs to give that poor old mare a break.
Will and Trish say their goodbyes, hugging Wren, waving to me. Will tells me we’ll have to get together soon and talk “real farming” without the women interrupting. I just nod.
Once they’re gone, Wren exhales. “Sorry about that.”
I wave her off. “It’s fine. They’re nice people.”
She leans against the porch rail, staring at the sunset. “They’re going to grill me tomorrow, though. Wanting to know what you were doing here, having dinner with us.”
I smirk. “What are you gonna tell them?”
“No idea.” She shrugs. “Good thing they think pretty highly of you.”
“Yeah?”
She glances sideways at me. “They were happy to hear you were going to be my neighbor. They said you were a good man . . . and I’m starting to see why.”
She says it so easy, so matter-of-fact, but it hits me square in the chest. People say a lot of things about me in this town, and they always find a way back to me, but this is the first I’m hearing of someone calling me “a good man.”
Wren returns her gaze to the amber sky.
I want to kiss her right now. The way the sunset paints her skin. The way the wind teases her hair. The way her lips are stained a deep shade of purple from the wine.
She’s glowing. Peaceful. Happy.
For a moment, everything feels right.
This feels right.
Like it’s exactly where we’re both supposed to be.
Like our entire universe conspired to bring us to the here and now.
She looks up at me, catching me staring, but she doesn’t look away. She holds my gaze, something soft and curious in her eyes.
And all I can think is—