Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Instead of driving, I walk, wishing I had made myself a cup of coffee or had driven over to Jitterbug Coffee for my morning jolt. The walk is only a few minutes, which isn’t bad, except as I stand on the street and look to my right, the police department is there—much closer than my apartment—and Ina’s house is still blocks away, which doesn’t make sense to me on how she could see lights at the school. Unless she moved, which she could’ve done while I was gone for the summer.
I have no idea what to expect and probably should’ve called the police to investigate, but here I am, rounding the corner of a building I’ve sworn to protect, ready to fight.
“What the hell are you doing?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and one would think I’d stop walking, but no. I keep on hoofing it toward the offender.
He stops and looks at me or at least I think he’s looking at me. The spotlight facing the ground, which is probably what Ina saw, is sort of blinding and I can’t really see him other than the outline of his body and shovel. If I had to guess, he’s burying a body or something.
What? Who would bury a body on school grounds?
“What are you doing out there at . . .?” I pause and look at my phone. “Half past five?”
“Do I know you?” he asks, throwing my words back at him.
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Okay. Call them. Be sure to let them know you hired me for a job and now you don’t want me to do it.”
“I didn’t—” Then it dawns on me. “You were supposed to do this yesterday.”
He chuckles. As if this is funny. Nothing is funny when you have the likes of Ina Meyers waking you up at the ass crack of dawn. I cross my arms and huff.
He laughs again.
“This isn’t funny.”
“You’re right, Lemon. It isn’t. Believe me, leaving my nice warm bed at four in the morning to come dig and till land for you is not my idea of a good time.”
“Like I said, you were supposed to do it yesterday.”
He slams the shovel into the ground and rests on the wooden part of it. “And you were supposed to set this up last week. Seems neither of us can keep time very well.” He yanks the shovel from the earth and then pushes it in again with his foot, repeating the process until he’s finished an outline.
I don’t know why I stand there and watch him, but I do. The muscles in his back, even hidden by his shirt, are forever etched in my mind. This man—the one who busted my heart into a million tiny shards—is beautiful and naturally muscular from years of hard work. I swallow hard as I watch him move earth with ease.
“Wade . . .” I say his name for the first time, to him, in years. It hurts, hearing my voice call out to him.
He stops and sets his shovel down. I didn’t expect him to walk toward me, but he does. Each step of his is deliberate and forceful, almost like he’s trying to leave his impression in the grass. He’s wearing his khaki cargo pants and from experience I know each pocket has something he’ll need today. A tool, twine, or trimmer line for the weed wacker. I’ve spent countless hours sitting on my parent’s front porch, watching him cut lawn with precision.
I’m out of breath when he comes face to face with me. He stands close. Close enough that we share the same air. Everything in my mind tells me to step back, to put a wall between us, but my heart sings at the closeness. I know I’ll never win the battle of hating him as long as we’re in the same town.
We stare at one another, taking each other in. His dark hair, brown eyes, and scruff all call to me, beg me to get lost in everything that is Wade Jenkins. I have loved this man for most of my life, and yet he’ll never be mine.
“Nice hat,” he says, adding to the cacophony of noises surrounding us, making it sound like the cicadas are serenading us.
My hand goes to the hat I put on before leaving. I’m a rough sleeper and often wake up with bedhead. I didn’t have time to run a brush through my hair—having to catch teenagers in the act of doing the unmentionable—and in my haste grabbed a hat that used to belong to him.
“It was in my closet.” It’s not a lie, but until recently, it had been tucked away in the back corner, never meant to see daylight. After one too many margaritas, I dug it out.