Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87179 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
She doesn’t reply, just leans into my hand as I continue to scratch her in her favorite spot.
“Come on. Let’s go watch some TV.”
“When did you get here?” Sharla asks me with a frown. She glances at her watch. “I thought I was early, and it’s seven in the damn morning.”
“I was here at six,” I reply without looking up from the bridal bouquet I’m working on. “This is a busy weekend.”
“They’re all busy this time of year.” Sharla loops her apron over her head and immediately strides into the cooler to fetch what she needs for the orders she’s working on today. Before long, Ida and Vickie arrive, ready to dig into work.
“Margie’s sick today,” I inform the others, who all pause what they’re doing and stare at me. “That’s all I know. So, Vickie, you’ll be delivering by yourself today. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Vickie says, waving me off. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry about it. If I have to, I can stay late.”
“Thank you,” I reply, relieved that the conversation went way better than expected. Not that Vickie’s ever given me trouble, but I was worried that she’d tell me she couldn’t stay later than scheduled. “I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” Vickie says with a wink. “We’ve got this.”
The morning flies by, and when the bell above the door sounds, my eyes are glassy, and my brain is foggy as I look up and see Chase walking through the door.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says with that handsome grin, looking delicious in his uniform.
“Afternoon?” I repeat and check the time. “Wow, I didn’t realize it was so late.”
“I take that to mean that you haven’t eaten,” he guesses and sets a brown paper bag on the glass counter. “One turkey on rye with mustard. Just for you.”
My stomach growls.
“You should go sit outside in the fresh air and eat that,” Ida suggests. “Take twenty minutes.”
“I shouldn’t,” I reply as I untie my apron and pull it over my head. “But I’m going to. Do you have time to join me?”
“You bet.”
I gesture for Chase to follow me, and we walk outside and across the street to the park in the town center. We find a bench and sit, and when I unwrap the sandwich, I sigh in happiness and pass Chase half.
“Eat with me.”
“I won’t pass it up.”
We take a bite in companionable silence, watching people pass by, and I tip my head up as I chew, enjoying the way the sunshine feels on my face.
“I love summertime,” I murmur before I open my eyes and take another bite. “I used to live for it. Every year, I got to come here to Bitterroot Valley and spend a couple of months with Aunt Paula, help her in the shop, and run around her property. I still say that summer here in Bitterroot Valley is the absolute best, but now I can’t help but wonder why she would agree to let me come stay with her every year.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“Because now I know how busy she was. It’s the craziest time of year for the business, yet she never said no to having me underfoot for several months at a time.”
“She probably enjoyed it as much as you did.”
“I think so, too, but she must have been swamped.”
“What did your parents do while you were here for the summer?”
I clear my throat and shrug a shoulder. “The same thing they did when I was home. My parents are in politics, so they traveled a lot. It felt like they were constantly campaigning and running off somewhere. When Dad was in DC, Mom would go with him. I swear, they’re attached at the hip. He’s retired now, but they still like to schmooze with the who’s who of politics. They weren’t thrilled that I didn’t follow in their footsteps.”
“They wanted you to?”
“Of course. I was supposed to be the first woman governor of Montana. But I did not want to go to law school, and the political life didn’t interest me. They supported me through college, but once I’d graduated, I told them to stop sending money. I just wanted to be separate from them, in every way.”
“That’s a very different family life than what I grew up with,” he considers and watches and someone jaywalk across the street.
“Is that really illegal?” I shield my eyes from the sun with my hand.
“Yep,” he says with a sigh. “Walking outside of a designated crosswalk is a violation, and I can write a ticket for it.”
“Do you?”
“Not often,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t have time. But I have in the past, and I likely will again. Usually when it’s dangerous and the jaywalker is being stupid.”
“Makes sense.” I nod and can’t help but smile, remembering all the times I’ve done it myself. “I have to confess, I’m guilty of jaywalking.”