Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
“Hungry?” It’s the one thing I do know about women: if they’re having big emotions, they want comfort food. My mom did, anyway, and fuck knows I helped her through more breakups than I should’ve. She had a new man almost every other month, each one deemed The One—the guy who was going to marry her, be my dad, and save us from our woefully bereft lives. The only problem was, they never were, and over time, all I really wanted was for Mom to stop living like the two of us weren’t enough.
Hope shrugs. “If you are.”
I raise a brow. She knows whether she’s hungry or not but isn’t saying. Along with her repeated apologies and appreciation for the littlest things, I’m beginning to wonder if Hope has ever spoken her mind. But there was that moment in the woods where she snapped at me, and a completely soft person wouldn’t have the guts to run from their own wedding, so she’s got a spine in there somewhere. She needs to use it.
Pot, kettle. Black, much?
Yeah, but Sean and I are a completely different situation. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself and seeing in others what I refuse to see in myself.
I pull out the small snack tray that was left in the fridge for my arrival and set it on the counter before turning around. “It’s more Lunchable than charcuterie, but it fills a void. Beer or wine?” She’s got to have an opinion there.
“I’m fine.”
I harrumph and grab two beers. I pop the top on both, setting one on the counter to encourage her toward the food. After a moment, in which I take a solid swig of my own beer and simply look at her, Hope caves and approaches like a dog who’s been beaten and is scared the promise of food is a trick. It tugs at me inside . . . and pisses me off.
How did she end up this way? Is it because of the guy she ran from? I hate men who use intimidation against women. It’s a sign of their own weakness, to need to bully someone that way. She said she’s worried her siblings might track down her fiancé, but I’m thinking maybe I could handle that for her instead. A solid lesson in how to be a good human would serve him right.
She takes a good swallow of her beer, long enough that I feel like she drinks the stuff occasionally.
“These are fucking delicious,” I tell her, hoping to entice her as I grab a toothpick holding a cheddar cheese cube. “I had a handful of them when I got here.”
She mimics my move, taking one and biting into it carefully. She chews slowly and hums. “Mm-hmm, they get these from the grocery store on Bennett Drive.”
Accepting the victory, I say, “Bring your beer.”
I’m taking charge here, for her own good. Because Hope’s day has been a shit show and I’m guessing she’s feeling some sort of way about it, but she needs a safe space to let those thoughts free. I move toward the living room, dropping the snacks on the coffee table before plopping down on the couch. I gesture to the chair where I’ve been sitting to play guitar. It’s warm, brown leather, with arms that’re perfect to lean against, and it’s situated right by the window. Seems like a great place to fall apart, given the fact that I’ve done it for the past few days, in my own way.
“I think I owe you a life story,” I remind her.
Do I want to share? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But is she going to jump right in and spill her guts to a stranger? Also no. I can give her an edited version that’ll keep my identity safe and help her feel more comfortable. Maybe it’s just pop psych therapy, but that’s about all I can offer.
Light comes into her blue eyes, and a warning alarm sounds in my brain. She’s dangerous. I could tell her things nobody knows just to bring that life into her.
“You do. What brought you to Maple Creek? And don’t say the titmice, because you already said you don’t actually bird-watch.” The threatening tease and the finger she points at me in warning are unexpected, and I grin back.
“Is that the plural form? I had a whole argument with myself earlier about titmice versus titmouses. Neither sounded right, and then I started muttering tit, tit, tit and giggling like I was fifteen again.” She laughs a tiny bit, and I feel like I won the fucking lottery, so I keep going. “Not that I was giggling about tits at that age. By then, I was solidly in the googly-eyed, wow stage.”
Her smirk says she doesn’t believe me.
“Life story. You ready? It’s quick and dirty. Benjamin Taylor, twenty-seven, grew up in California in a town you’ve never heard of, to a single mom who was doing her best to keep a leash on a hellion like me. I’m on vacation in Maple Creek, which I found a week ago by having a buddy hold up a map in front of a wall at a bar and throwing a dart at it. Literally. I’m a city kid, so this whole outdoor-trees-and-fresh-air thing you have going on here is really fucking me up.”