Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“But it’s smart. You’re building a business that’s going to be profitable for years to come. Once the initial investment is over, you’ll have a cash cow on your hands.”
“I hope so,” he says, “but don’t jinx it. This is Sprout’s college fund. The adventure tours pay for everything we need, but this is going to take my ability to save to the next level. I’m hoping to have enough stashed away that she won’t have to take out a single loan.”
“That’s smart. My loans are a pain in my ass, and I won’t even be using my degree once I start tattooing.” I smile. “You’re a good dad. Sprout’s lucky to have you.”
He grunts, his smile fading. “I try.”
“You succeed.”
He presses his lips together, his brow furrowing. For a moment, I think he’s going to argue with me, but then the cabin appears over the next rise, and he heaves a giant sigh of relief. “Fuck. I’ve never been so happy to see this place.”
I echo his sigh, relief making my knees wobbly. “Me, too. I would race you to the porch, but I’m injured and your spine is probably never going to be the same again as it is.”
He laughs. “My spine is fine, but that bath is sounding better and better. There’s the tub. Fancy, right?”
I glance in the direction of his nod, spotting a dark green clawfoot tub that blends in with the peeling green paint on the porch. But it’s white on the inside and looks gorgeous. “I bet that bath lady sold a lot of bath bombs. Or salts or soap or whatever she was peddling on social media.”
“Bath potions,” he says. “That’s what Sprout told me, anyway. She looked the woman up online. She’s now moved into a bigger, nicer cabin, with two outdoor bathtubs to choose from.”
My brows lift. “Wow. Maybe I’ve picked the wrong job. I mean, I love tattooing, but full-time taker of baths sounds like an amazing gig.”
“I’m usually a shower guy, but right now, I’d be on board.” He laugh-groans as we climb the steps onto the porch. “I could call my account Cranky Old Man in a Tub.”
I hum beneath my breath. “Yeah, no. We can think of a better name for your account than that. I’ll work on it while you’re relaxing. Point me toward the fireplace, I’m a whiz with a fire. It’s always my job at family functions. I get the firepits roaring while Melissa sets up the fire snacks station.”
“Speaking of, I have s’mores supplies in the kitchen,” he says, pausing to punch a code into the keypad on the back door. I didn’t expect something so technological on an “off the grid” cabin, but it appears to be powered by a small solar cell on top of the device.
“Heck, yes,” I say, my mouth watering at the thought. “Oh my God, toasted marshmallows sound so good right now. The only thing better would be a glass of wine.”
As I follow him past a small, but simple dining table by the back door, into the partially renovated kitchen, it’s like my words magically summon my wish into existence.
“What the…” Seven stops by the island at the end of the kitchen, staring at the large wicker basket on the coffee table in the small living room. It’s filled with all sorts of treats, including a loaf of freshly baked bread from my favorite bakery in town, salami, popcorn, apples, oranges, bananas, and two bottles of wine—one white and one red.
“Looks like our kidnappers were worried about us going hungry,” I say, still holding up my pants as I circle around Seven to pluck a card with our names on it from between two especially juicy-looking apples. I glance up at him with the envelope between two fingers. “Mind if I open this?”
He shakes his head. “No. But fair warning, this is making me even madder.”
I arch a brow as I take in his stormy expression. “Noted. Maybe if you put down the bags, you’ll feel less like punching something.”
“Good point.” He unburdens himself with stiff jerks of his arms before sagging to the ground and stretching out on the worn hardwood beside the coffee table. “My back needs a moment on a hard, flat surface. Traction would probably also be good.”
I shake my head as I open the note. “You’re definitely getting that bath. And a glass of wine while you’re in there. You deserve it. Thank you, again, for carrying my pack.”
“Never thank me for shit like that,” he says, his eyes sliding closed. “You would have done the same thing.”
I’m not certain I would have been capable of doing the same thing, but he’s right—I would have tried. I may be a pint-sized hero compared to him, but I’ve always tried to be someone other people can count on in times of trouble.