Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
We talk every night, whether Dalton is in town or out, and whether there’s a game or not. We talk about our days, our thoughts, our lives. And while it’s not like we’re curing cancer, or discussing world peace, or anything deep, those little conversations are where the danger is. But even so, I can’t help curling up in bed or on the couch at the end of every long day to wait for his call.
At this point, I don’t know if it’s him, the daily orgasms, or the combination of the two that has me in such a great mood.
The weekend before Thanksgiving is a big deal in Maple Creek. Our annual Fall Festival brings tourists from the whole tristate area to our little town to participate in pumpkin carving contests, apple cider drinking, hayrides, and more. For a lot of families, it’s the beginning of their holiday season, so Maple Creek does a good job of keeping traditions alive so that they can have those memories from generation to generation.
One of the most anticipated festivities is the Saturday night bonfire. It’s been going on for decades. I know I’ve seen pictures of the Maple Creek Fall Bonfire going all the way back to the fifties.
“This is so exciting!” Rayleigh squeals, gripping my hand tightly in hers as she leans into my side. “What time do they light it?”
“About thirty minutes after dusk,” I tell her for the third time since picking her up.
I can’t help but smile at Rayleigh’s enthusiasm for not only the festival, but life in general. She’s never met a sunrise she wasn’t grateful for and enthusiastic about making the most of.
She’s one of my newest and best friends. What started as me hiring her as a Pilates personal trainer a year ago turned into coffee chats, mani-pedi dates, and shopping for excessive amounts of yoga pants—mostly for her because she is obsessed with having a full rainbow spectrum of matching outfits since they’re her “work uniforms” and she dresses each morning based on what color’s vibe she’s feeling for the day.
Today is apparently a khaki-feeling day because she’s wearing tan leather-look leggings, a long cream-colored sweater with a white collared shirt peeking out at the neckline and hem, and knee-high brown boots. Her brunette hair is curled to perfection and accented with a chiffon bow. She looks chic as hell, and knowing she would, I dressed cute, too, in dark flared jeans, a baby-pink sweater that’s so soft I’ll have to fight to keep from petting myself, and cowboy boots. Thankfully, the sun is bright and high in the sky, keeping the afternoon warm so we don’t need coats yet. And tonight, if the bonfire and dancing don’t keep us toasty enough, I brought blankets we can wrap up in.
“I’m surprised you didn’t come last year,” I tell her as I scan the crowd of people, seeing some faces I know and lots I don’t.
“Ooh! Can we get a funnel cake?” she pleads, pointing to a food truck emblazoned with the fried yumminess. “And I moved here the weekend before the festival last year. I was living out of boxes and didn’t know a soul, so this”—she waves a hand around—“was basically out of the question.”
I came last year, but it wasn’t the same because Hope was gone. I think she was in North Carolina at the time. But I’m truly glad to be here with Rayleigh this year.
If Hope hadn’t moved to LA, I don’t think I would’ve been as open to a new friendship, so in this small way, I’m glad my sister found the guts to go, because Rayleigh is great. She’s bright, bubbly, and full of positivity, and she knows absolutely nothing about sports, which gives me the opportunity to talk about something else. And I’ve gotten to introduce her to all the awesomeness of Maple Creek, including restaurants, Chuck’s, and our full calendar of seasonal offerings, which gives me a chance to appreciate my hometown totally anew. We’ve done every touristy thing available as she settles into town as a new local.
I pull out a length of tickets, paying for a funnel cake topped with powdered sugar, whipped cream, and strawberries. “Two forks, please.”
We find a hay bale to sit on and dig in. “Tell me everything,” Rayleigh says, one eye on the treat in front of us and one on everything surrounding us.
I take a bite myself and use my fork to give her a running pointed verbal guide to the festival. “There’s a petting zoo over there, a pumpkin patch where you can choose one to carve for the contest or to take home, food trucks aplenty, a few fair-type rides like a Ferris wheel, vendors in the tented area, a hay maze and hayride, and then, of course, the bonfire and dance later.”