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 can’t stop thinking about this morning, seeing Hunter and Natalie conversing outside the coffee shop, a little too close, talking a little too intently. I’d almost bet money she’s spinning a web about me using him for my book, telling him how inspired I was by our rendezvous. Sabotaging any remaining chance we could’ve had to make a go of this. I’d bet even more money that she downplayed Cole Benton on purpose, hoping I’d nibble at his cheap attempt to reel me in, her knowing damn well what kind of person he is.
Regardless of what Natalie did or didn’t say at the coffee shop, Hunter’s been ignoring me since before that run-in. Whatever Natalie said probably just cemented whatever narrative he’d already been writing in his head.
It’s over. Done.
It was fun while it lasted.
And hey, I’ve got half a book out of it, so it wasn’t for nothing. That’s the only real way to salvage the pain of all of this going belly up. It’s the only spin I can put on it that doesn’t feel like a hot knife gliding into the center of my heart.
I’m mid-sulk when Atticus tiptoes into my office, still in his dinosaur pajamas, his hair sticking up like a haystack. I tucked him in an hour ago.
“Hey, what are you doing up, buddy?” I ask, glancing at the clock. “It’s way past bedtime.”
“I heard a funny noise,” he says, rubbing his eyes.
“This is an old house, kiddo. It makes funny noises all the time.”
He shuffles closer, his face scrunched. “I’m sad.”
I swivel my chair to face him fully. “Why?”
“’Cause Hunter doesn’t come around anymore.”
The words hit me square in the chest, but I force a smile. “Hunter’s really busy, baby. He runs a big farm. A huge one. He’ll come visit when he can.”
“But when will that be?”
I swallow, searching for an answer that won’t break both our hearts. “I don’t know.”
His face falls. “When I was in his tractor last week, I asked him to come over more. He promised he would.”
That does break my heart . . . clean in two, but what really bubbles up is anger—scorching, searing.
Hunter didn’t just break a promise to me—he broke one to my son.
“He probably just got busy,” I say, trying to soften it. “That happens sometimes.”
“Maybe I can ride Sugarplum up to his house,” Atticus says, hopeful. “Then he’ll have to see me.”
“You know you’re not allowed to leave the corral with Sugarplum,” I remind him. “We’ve talked about that. Now back to bed, mister.”
He yawns, rubbing his eyes again. I scoop him up, his weight warm and familiar against me as I carry him back to bed. I tuck him in, brushing his hair off his forehead, lingering and watching until he finally drifts off.
When I get back to my office, I stare at my phone, debating whether to text Hunter. Maybe ask him what the hell his deal is. Why he lied about not playing games. Why he’d let Atticus down so easily.
But I stop myself.
Nick is coming tomorrow. And I’m already dreading that. I don’t have the energy for both of these men and their bullshit.
After this, I’m done.
I’m done wasting my energy on people who don’t deserve it. Done chasing. Done pleading. Done apologizing when I’ve done nothing wrong. Done breaking promises I made to myself. Done compromising my standards for the promise of something that always turns out to be smoke and mirrors. Done downplaying my needs and wants to make myself more palatable for someone.
If it’s just me and Atticus the rest of my life, so be it.
I deserved better. Atticus deserved better.
I’d rather be alone than settle for less ever again.
55
Hunter
I’m sitting in my living room, the house dead quiet except for the creak of wood settling and the occasional low whistle of wind against the windows. The notebook’s in my lap—her notebook—and I’ve been flipping through it for the past hour.
The first time I read it, I was pissed. Seeing everything I thought was just between us written down, some of it explicit as hell, mixed right in with plot notes and chapter outlines. I felt exposed. Played. Used like a damn fool.
But tonight, I’m calmer. Less . . . reactive.
Trying like hell to give her the benefit of the doubt.
I read slower this time. Really read. Not just the sex. Not the observations about the way I move or what I say in the dark when it’s just the two of us.
It’s the other stuff.
The letters to me.
The confessions about her ex, the emotional scars he left behind.
Her fears and vulnerabilities.
Her hopes and dreams.
The ache she tries so hard to cover up.
The way she describes grappling with all the conflicting feelings I stir up in her.
The entries about how hard it is to do this life alone, but how she’s done it anyway, because what choice does she have?