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)
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We finish our wine in silence, the breeze cooling and soft as the sun goes down. Eventually, we gather ourselves and head inside, turning off porch lights and locking up. The house is dim and quiet, wrapped in the kind of tranquility reserved for country nights like this.
I slip into my favorite silk pajamas, brush my teeth, and check on Atticus one last time. He’s still sound asleep, arms sprawled wide like he owns the world.
Back in our bedroom, I grab my notebook from the nightstand. A new sunflower one Hunter got me when I moved in, something to represent a new start.
I flip to a blank page and start writing—soft, slow words about a man with broad shoulders and a quiet heart.
Hunter walks in, towel slung over his shoulder, skin damp from the shower. He spots the notebook and narrows his eyes.
“You writing about me again?” he asks.
“When am I not?” I wink.
He crosses the room and leans down, lips brushing my temple. “Can I read it?”
“Someday,” I whisper.
He plucks the notebook from my hands, places it on the nightstand, clicks off my lamp, and climbs in beside me. Pulling me into his arms, he kisses me—long and sure and deep—the kind of kiss that makes my toes curl and my heart remember every reason I’m here.
In his arms, I fall asleep knowing I’ll never stop writing about him.
Because I used to write about love.
Now I live it.