Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
We’re in our own universe, and I can almost hear his heartbeat in the magic of the moment.
He’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to go to him. Waiting for me to take him back. Doesn’t he realize how much happier he’ll be if he just lets me go?
With a steeling breath, I close my eyes. Then I step out of view from the window. Sliding down the wall, I land on my heels and hug my knees to my chest.
The song cycles three more times. Tears sting my face, hot and relentless, pouring from splintered cracks.
Then the honking stops. I peek out the window.
He’s gone.
A week passes before I see him again. He brings Chicken and stands under my window. Nothing more. Just his unyielding stance, his silence, his direct eye contact. He’s sending an unmistakable message.
I’ll wait.
As summer withers into autumn, his visits continue. Once a week. Twice a week. The days are irregular. Sometimes he comes alone and watches me run in the park. Often, he arrives at night and sits beneath my window.
How do I deal with this? Indirect resistance to his presence, avoidance of conversation, procrastination—these are the only tactics I have. Of course, they’re not effective.
Meanwhile, I’m tormented by the fact that he spends eight hours in his truck on the days he visits me. He’s missing work, which he can’t afford to do. He’s stalking, which is the complete opposite of moving on. And he’s making me crazy.
I find myself looking for him, searching the streets, trembling on pins and needles for his next visit.
Then winter plunges the temperatures below freezing, and his routine changes.
He shows up at the diner where I work.
On my lunch break, I sit at the bar, watching the ice melt in my soda. He lowers onto the stool beside me and orders coffee from the server.
We sit together in silence as flurries of snow whistle past the windows. If anyone’s watching us, they don’t know we have history. They don’t realize how out of place and lost we are. A widow and a murderer, stuck in a broken love story.
Then he looks at me, and an electric spark tingles from my scalp to my toes and deep inside my bones. In that moment, I’ve never felt so alone.
I wish I’d never met him. I resent the unwavering love I feel for him. I silently will him to leave.
He finishes his coffee and walks out the door without a word or a glance.
And that’s how we spend the winter. Sitting at the bar during my lunch break. Sharing a moment of longing, regret, and uncertainty. Those are my feelings. He broadcasts something entirely different.
There’s no verbal conversation, but he communicates. With his eyes resting on the side of my face. With his breath pacing the erratic rush of mine. With his company intruding on my life and invading my every thought.
He still loves me. He wants me back, and he won’t give up.
I’m fully aware I’ve fallen into a passive-aggressive pattern with him, and as the months wear on, Jarret remains silently aggressive, waiting for me all up in my personal space.
Then one night, a year after I left him, his aggressiveness reaches new levels.
I’ve been pursuing the local paper since I arrived in this town, damn-near begging for an opportunity to write for them. Fashion, entertainment, community news… I’ve offered to cover any column, full-time or part-time.
The owner, Keegan Mitchell, finally agrees to meet with me at a fancy steakhouse in town. It’s a strange venue for an interview, and not because I’m a vegetarian. I prefer to talk in his office, but he insists on dinner.
Over a course of wine and salad, Keegan asks about my education and experience. He has my resume, so the questions feel a little redundant. Maybe he didn’t have time to look over it?
I answer enthusiastically, and he smiles and bobs his head.
He’s a nice-looking man. Black hair, energetic eyes, shorter than average, a tad too skinny, and a few years my elder—he reminds me of Tom Cruise with that overstretched smile.
“I noticed there’s no ring.” He cocks his chin at my hand. “Not married?”
“Not married.”
“No boyfriend?”
I fight the impulse to squirm. I’m not sure how this line of questioning applies to the job, but I push back my shoulders and keep my professional face in place. “I assure you my personal life won’t interfere with work.”
“Very good.” He nods, and his gaze dips to my chest before he catches himself. “Why do you want this job?”
My brow furrows.
I went to college to be a journalist. Writing about fashion was the only job I could land after school. Given my mom’s love for makeup and glitter, I had a solid background on the subject. But after working on the ranch and soaking in the outdoors, I lost my passion for office work.