Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“How are you, Bobby?” I ask, starting to pet the pig. But, before I can make contact, it swings its snout toward me with a not-too-friendly oink as if it’s about to bite me.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of this thing?” Bobby asks, amused.
I make a face. “I’m not afraid of it. I just … I thought it would be softer. Cuddlier.” More grateful that I spared its life.
“You’ve read too many storybooks,” Hartley says.
I study Pigasso. The pleading look in his face last night isn’t the same one staring back at me this morning. I’m not really getting Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web vibes anymore.
“Since you’re both here,” Oscar says, slamming the back of his truck closed. “I’ll consider this signed, sealed, and delivered.” He gives Hartley a wave, and an unnecessary—and totally unhelpful—chuckle, before climbing inside the cab and taking off down the driveway.
“What do you want me to do with this, boss?” Bobby asks.
“His name is Pigasso,” I say.
Bobby nods, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t laugh. “Pigasso. Got it.”
Hartley sighs, his gaze weighing heavily on the side of my face. And every second that passes with Bobby’s question unanswered feels like a lifetime because I know why he’s not responding. He’s waiting for me to answer a few questions first.
Crap. I take a deep breath and turn to him.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “In my more … sober state today, I realized that not calling you before sending a pig to the ranch was a not-so-great idea. I can try to find an animal rescue, but it might take me a couple of days. Could you at least keep Pigasso until then?”
Bobby coughs back a laugh. “Want me to put it—Pigasso—in an empty stall for now?”
“Yeah,” Hartley says, his voice flat.
I glance over my shoulder at my car. “Hey.” I turn and find them both looking at me. “Since you’re both here, do either of you know how I could get my hands on enough gas to get back to town?” I half smile, half wince at their reactions.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mira,” Hartley says, shaking his head in exasperation.
“What? I was in a hurry,” I say. “That last quarter tank just goes. It goes so fast that my fuel gauge might be faulty.”
Bobby laughs. “I’m glad some things don’t change. It gives me hope for the future.” He starts toward the barn. “Good to see you, Mira.”
“You, too,” I call after him.
Hartley heads to his truck bed and slides two gas cans to the tailgate. How is he this prepared? He moves without looking at me, like it’s a normal day at work and I’m not standing next to him. But a vein in the side of his neck pulses as he lifts the plastic jugs, and I think that has more to do with me than the weight of the bottles.
My heart thumps wildly as I watch him carry one to my car. He hasn't exactly agreed to take Pigasso, nor has he accepted my apology. Worst of all? He acts like he doesn’t want to speak to me.
And no matter what’s going on between us—good, bad, or otherwise—he always speaks to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stumbling over my words.
“Don’t worry about it.”
His tone makes me worry even more.
“Hart …” I groan, stepping out of his way. “I really am sorry about this. I’ll get Pigasso out of here as soon as I can.”
He fills my tank and then tosses the empty jug back into his truck. “I said, don’t worry about it.”
“But the words aren’t really matching the tone, you know?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds that stretch longer than they should.
When Hartley looks at me like this, everything stills. The world slows. The noise that’s constantly rumbling through my head—worries, questions, and memories—is stripped away. I’m left with nothing to hide behind.
It’s just me. Exposed. Vulnerable. Bared before him.
And unfortunately … I don’t hate it.
I’ve thought about how Hartley looks at me a million times, because vulnerability has never come easy to me. It’s wrecked more relationships than I can count. But with Hartley, it’s different.
There’s no judgment when he sees the ugly parts of me. No teasing, no softening it into a joke that makes it an easier pill to swallow. He doesn’t try to fix what he sees either.
He just … sees it. Sees me.
It’s like he understands the way I’m built, like he sees more than he’s ever said out loud. The same way he knew, all those years ago, to compliment my shoes. And instead of being anxious about being such an unintentional open book with him, it’s almost a relief.
“How have you been?” he asks, his voice deeper than before. This isn’t the one he uses while working, or with Cathy, or the people at Piper’s Pizza. It’s a little rough around the edges and a touch rawer—a bit unguarded.