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)
Hope stares at me, waiting for more. When I stay quiet, she tilts her head. “That’s it?”
“What else you want?” I’m usually super protective and private, and have even gotten a kick out of outright lying when it didn’t matter. The most entertaining is telling waitresses we’ll never see again that we’re professional jugglers or something equally ridiculous. But every word of what I told Hope is true. It feels oddly good to say it aloud, even if there is a tiny wiggle of nerves that shoots through me at revealing so much.
“Did you actually choose your vacation spot with a dart at a bar? People make reservations a year ahead of time to come here, and you expect me to believe you got one of the resort’s rentals last-minute?”
I did. It wasn’t easy—or cheap—but money talks, and once my dart hit Maple Creek, I wasn’t changing my mind. I needed to escape, and it felt like this was the place to do it. Maybe it’s the same for Hope.
“Lucky, I guess. Maybe they had a cancellation?” I shrug like I’m not sure how it worked out so well, when I know damn well that after the travel agent said the owner was responsive to additional funding and would consider my reservation for a price, I paid up and he canceled on the other guests.
Was it shitty of me? Yes. Am I sorry I did it? Nope. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I was desperate to get away. From everything.
“Hmm.”
She doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not ready to give her more details on my own background, so I go for broke to distract her.
“Your turn. What’s your story?” I prompt, but when she turns her scared eyes on me again, I soften the ask. “Not today, but in general. You from here or what?”
She relaxes visibly when she realizes I’m not prying into the wedding fiasco. “Yeah, born and raised in Maple Creek.” Her fingers start fidgeting with a button on the flannel shirt, and then she confesses, “We were supposed to go into the city tonight. Stay at a fancy hotel, visit swanky bars, and eat at five-star restaurants for the week.”
I don’t press, letting her spill as she wants to. “Sounds awful. I’m more the beer-and-cheese-cube type myself.” She looks up at me through her lashes, and I make a show out of grabbing another toothpick and sticking it between my teeth to pull the cheddar free. I wink as I start to chew. “Yep, better than fancy-schmancy any day.”
Her smile is slow, but it grows until she laughs a little bit. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Benjamin Taylor, but how would you know if that’s better, Mr. Beer and Cheese?” She looks pointedly at the tray of food.
She’s not wrong. I’m not the five-star type. Doesn’t mean I haven’t been wined and dined by business types, blown ridiculous amounts of my own money on stupid shit, and don’t know the difference between government cheese and good stuff. “Best guess,” I reply, adding a noncommittal shrug to make it believable. “Plus, company’s better.”
It’s not necessarily a brag, considering she ran away from the guy she was supposed to be with tonight, but she ponders my assessment. “Roy’s probably worried about me. And mad.”
I stay silent but lift my brows in question. I don’t know this Roy guy, but I’m 99 percent sure I hate the fucker. If for no other reason than he put that questioning tone in Hope’s voice. Any man who makes a woman cower like a scared chihuahua over any expression of her opinion deserves a swift kick in the nuts.
“We’ve been together since high school, everything going exactly to plan—until this morning, when I felt . . .” She trails off like she’s searching for the right word. “Trapped.” She shakes her head, then corrects herself: “That’s not true. I’ve felt it for a while, but this morning felt like I’d been tied up in a straitjacket and dunked in a tank of water, Houdini-style. But I couldn’t get out.” Her eyes go glassy, disturbingly unseeing as she describes her panic. “That doesn’t make sense, though. This is what I want. The guy, the dress, the wedding. Even the marriage. It’s everything I want.”
“You can get everything you want only to discover it’s not what you thought it was. That’s okay, Hope,” I say gently, not sure if she’s ready to hear that yet. Hell, not sure if I’m ready to hear it yet, because I’m facing those same scary demons.
“What do you do, then?” She meets my eyes like she’s hoping I have some mystical, magical answer. But I’m no Magic 8 Ball or Ouija board. I’m just a lucky kid from Cali who can scream in tune and write lyrics people relate to.