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)
Despite coming home to visit on a regular basis, it’s not the same as calling this place home again. There was never an attachment to it, never a second thought, never a single care about what had and hadn’t changed over the years because it never affected me.
Grabbing the wrapped ground beef out of the next bag, I think about the handsome yet grumpy guy from the grocery store today. I felt his gaze land heavy on me before I approached the meat counter, but once I got there, he was stoic, uninterested, and unbothered. I might as well have been invisible—until I requested grass-fed hamburger.
Hunter—I’m pretty sure that’s what the butcher called him, though my mind was going fifty different directions and firing on all cylinders, so I could be wrong.
He looks like a Hunter, though—all stoic and rugged.
“Call Natalie Dinsmore,” she says, snapping her fingers like she’s just remembered. “You two were joined at the hip in high school. She’s still around—runs that little boutique on the square. She’d love to hear from you.”
“I haven’t talked to Natalie in over fifteen years.” Last time I saw her was at a house party some summer right after college. We had a blast, just like old times, and exchanged numbers, but neither one of us followed up. Alcohol-and-nostalgia-fueled promises tend to play out like that.
“Which means you’ll have lots to catch up on.” She nudges my shoulder.
I lean against the counter. For the last five years, I’ve only been forty minutes away, but it might as well have been across the country some days. No one besides family ventured my way too often. If they did, they were shopping or seeing a concert or show. And other than visiting my parents, I had no other reason to come back to Colton Valley.
“We’ve missed having you close by,” she says softly.
I exhale, smiling, but a little guilt creeps in. I let life get too busy. Too loud. I forgot how grounding this place could be. How easy it is to breathe when people know you. And how good it feels to be home.
Really, truly home.
“Thanks for helping with Atti today,” I say as she wipes her hands.
Will calls from the foyer that they need to head out.
She cups my face, her eyes full of hope and sanguinity. “We’re just glad you’re finally home—where you belong. I always had a feeling you’d come back.”
Later, when my son is shower-fresh and tucked into his new bed, I sit cross-legged in the middle of my office, surrounded by unopened boxes and tangled cords.
The faint scent of old books and pine cleaner fills the air. There’s a soft whoosh that glides through the opened window every time the wind rustles through the trees. The chirping crickets combined with the faint croaks of frogs by the river play like background music. Moonlight fills in the shadows around me, casting soft silver-gold beams across the room.
I’ve placed my desk directly in front of the window. It’s a simple writer’s desk. One with whitewashed wood, a sage green inlay, and a drawer that sticks—a graduation gift from my grandfather, who was an avid woodsmith in his day. On top sits my trusty MacBook, a little milk glass desk lamp, an Iowa State coffee mug filled with pens in every color, and a framed photo of Atticus at age two at the state fair, grinning like a champion after winning a stuffed cow at the midway.
Outside, the trees sway lazily, and the gravel drive is empty.
But my thoughts aren’t.
I keep seeing him—the man at the meat counter earlier today.
Defined jaw.
Rough hands.
Sweeping broad shoulders.
Close-shaved beard.
Hair the color of dark chocolate.
The tiniest hint of salt-and-pepper at his temples.
Gorgeous bright blue eyes that played off his suntanned complexion.
I couldn’t stop staring no matter how hard I tried . . . and believe me, I tried.
There was something about the way he stood. Like he didn’t want to be noticed but knew he would be. And the way he didn’t flirt back with the butcher? She was cute and funny—and the way her face lit when she was practically throwing herself at him was painfully obvious. But Hunter couldn’t have cared less about the whole thing. If anything, it seemed to annoy him.
He seemed guarded.
Private.
Aloof yet silently observant at the same time.
Which is why it caught me by surprise when he called me out on the grass-fed beef thing. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to flirt, be helpful, or if he was just being a jerk. It all happened so fast and then it was over. By the time I got checked out and to the car, he was long gone.
I imagine I’ll see him around town again.
And I hope I do.
Before I realize it, my pen is between my teeth. My fingers twitch for something—anything—to capture the mood wrapping itself around me like smoke. It’s the kind of moment most writers dream of—an idea burning inside you so hot and fast you have to seize it immediately or it’ll be gone forever.