Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
They know I’m treating her right because the woman hasn’t stopped smiling since the first night she slept at my place. Neither have I.
The timer on my phone chimes. I turn off the rice and give it a stir, then check on the green beans in the pot beside it.
I’m filling the wineglasses with some Oregon Pinot Noir—another Mollie Luck selection—when arms wrap around my middle.
“Hi.” Sally leans her head against my back and pulls me to her. She takes a deep inhale.
“Hi.” I smile, glancing over my shoulder. “Are you smelling me?”
“I am. You smell delicious. How was your day?”
“Better now. You?”
“It was awesome. I successfully fixed a broken femur this morning, and then I got to ride on horseback with the Hanovers’ herd during lunch. It was a pretty great day.”
I turn around and hand her a wineglass, then hold up my free hand. “Hell yeah, it was great. Proud of you, Sunshine.”
She gives me the high five I’m looking for. But instead of letting her arm fall, she grabs my hand and twines our fingers, going up on her tiptoes to kiss me. “I have something for you.”
“Oh, yeah?” I hook a finger in the waistband of her sweats, smiling like an idiot.
I love this woman’s hunger. She’s voracious for experience, for food and sex and sleep, and I’m more than a little thrilled to be the one indulging her.
She bites her lip. “Well, you’re gonna get that too. But I got you a present.” Turning around, she grabs the big paper bag she brought in earlier and holds it out to me, eyes glittering with excitement. “Hope you like it.”
I blink. When was the last time I received an actual gift? For my birthday, Patsy will always make my favorite Texas sheet cake, and my brothers will take me out to The Rattler to get hammered. Every so often, Ella will give me the little arts-and-crafts projects she does at school. As a matter of fact, the tie-dye butterfly she made out of a coffee filter and a clothespin still hangs on my fridge.
I can’t remember, though, when someone actually bought me something.
Setting my wine on the counter, I take the bag. I see there’s a rectangular box inside wrapped in cowboy-boot-print paper.
“Cute,” I say, removing the box from the bag. It’s heavy.
Sally leans a hip into the counter. “I can’t take credit for the wrapping. They did it at the store.”
My heart dips. “Which store?”
“That adorable little bookstore in Lubbock. Drove out there today after lunch because only the best will do for Wyatt Rivers.”
She’s throwing my line back at me—the one I made about the fancy cowboy hat I bought for the potluck because I wanted to look good for her—and I love her cleverness, the way she cares, so damn much that I can hardly breathe around the happy swelling inside my chest.
“You didn’t have to.” My voice is husky.
“I wanted to.” Sally nods at the package. “Open it.”
I try to keep my hands from shaking too much as I carefully insert my finger underneath the seam of the wrapping paper and pull up the tape.
Sally chuckles. “You can tear the paper.”
I don’t want to tear the paper. I want to fold it up. Keep it forever, a memory of this moment.
The paper falls away, revealing a box set of all the Little House on the Prairie books.
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or holler with delight.
My throat closes in.
They’re just fucking books.
But when I glance up at Sally, it’s clear we both know they’re so much more than that.
“Since you and your mom enjoyed these stories so much, I thought you and I could revisit them,” Sally says, and I notice her eyes get a little misty too. “Could be a cute way of keeping her memory alive?”
Her thoughtfulness.
Her insistence that I don’t bottle shit up or sweep my grief under the rug.
Her bravery, confronting things that aren’t easy to face.
I’m speechless.
Me, the guy who has a line for everything. The guy who can’t help but crack a joke, deliver a verbal blow, tease the hell out of whoever I’m talking to.
I’m so fucking in love with this girl that I literally can’t speak. For a split second, I worry I’m having a heart attack.
Please, God, don’t let me die just when shit’s getting good.
But you know what? My heart keeps beating. My lungs keep filling with air. My blood keeps pumping, making me feel more alive than I ever have.
More scared, yes. But I’m still standing, aren’t I? Talking about Mom, revisiting my past—well, it hasn’t killed me yet.
Holy shit, I’m actually okay.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Sally sets down her wine and gently takes the box set from my hands. “You’re welcome. Do we start chronologically?” She unwraps the plastic from the books. “Or do we dive right into your favorite? I do love Little House in the Big Woods, but Farmer Boy is, well, you. For us though, maybe These Happy Golden Years is the best way to go? I don’t remember there being explicit sex in it, but we can make some up to add some literal and figurative spice? Jesus, listen to me. You’ve turned me into an absolute perv.”