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)
I’m not all right.
It’s not all right that she literally can’t remember the last time she was taken on a proper date. Has anyone ever treated Sally Powell the way she deserves?
How do I not know the answer to that question?
It suddenly hits me—the enormity of all that I missed out on in her life while she was gone and I was wallowing in grief. Yet another example of how me pretending not to give a fuck about anyone or anything bit me in the ass. I never asked about her love or sex life. Frankly, I didn’t want to know because I was so in love with her. Hearing about the guys she’d met, the parties she’d gone to, would kill me. I mentally filled in the blanks and tried not to think too hard about it.
Now I realize I should’ve asked, if only so I could look out for her. Remind her that she could—and should—ask for so much more than what some drunk-ass frat boy with a sense of entitlement as big as his trust fund gave her.
But it ain’t my place to make that choice for her, is it?
Choose me. Goddamn, Sunshine, I’m dying for you to choose me.
Some sick, twisted part of me is a little relieved that no one’s measured up yet. That I’m the only one who can make her feel at ease in her own skin.
I’m more pleased than I should be when I hold out my hand and she takes it, leaning into me as she climbs out of the truck, careful not to trip on her heels.
“You good?” I wrap my palm around hers, my blood stirring with familiar heat.
She gives me a tight smile. “I’m good.”
“Remember, tug on your ear—”
“If it’s too much.” Her eyes glint in the darkness when they meet mine. “I don’t think you have to worry. My current drought is so epic that I don’t think too much exists for me right now.”
I nearly bite off my tongue. “I feel like I should be worried if that’s the case.”
“You worried I’m gonna climb you like a tree?” She twines our fingers again and smirks. “Remember, Wy, just tug on your ear if it’s too much.”
What would she do if I bent down right now and threw her over my shoulder? Put her back in the truck, ripped off that dress, fucked her like the world was ending?
“You got some mouth on you, sugar.”
“I’m not as sweet as I look, handsome.”
“I kinda like handsome. Blond Bear Cowboy might be better—”
“Who’s ever called you Blond Bear Cowboy?” Sally laughs, and my heart turns over.
“No one yet.”
“I’ll bet another fifty no one ever will.”
“You callin’ my bluff?”
She leans in, teasing. So close that I can smell the Crest toothpaste on her breath. “Sure am, handsome. Hope you brought cash.”
We’ve both used the same kind of toothpaste ever since I puked my guts out in ninth grade during fifth-period study hall—classic case of the Jack Daniel’s flu—and Sally came to the rescue with a tube of Crest. I liked the way it tasted, so I asked Mom to buy me some. Been using it ever since.
Sally shivers again, and this time, I know it’s because of the cold. How long have we been standing out here? A minute? An hour?
I give her hand a gentle tug. “Let’s go. Feels better inside.”
“That’s a euphemism, isn’t it?”
“Everything that comes outta my mouth is a euphemism. Best get used to it.”
The annual Hartsville potluck and silent auction is already in full swing when we step through the barn doors. Sally gasps with delight as we take in the rustic barn of every wedding planner’s dream. Fairy lights are strewn across the roof, and the wooden support beams are wrapped in brightly colored fall foliage. Candles glint from the dozens of round tables that fill the space, each one draped in a dark red tablecloth and set with china. The smells of mulled cider and smoked pork fill the air.
Waylon Jennings plays over the speakers, and Tallulah is behind the nearby bar. I overhear her agreeing to do body shots with some patrons if enough money is raised tonight.
Can’t help but smile. This is Hartsville in a nutshell—a little bit classy, a lot country.
Guess you could describe Sally and me that way, too, if we were a real couple. Which we’re not, obviously. But we’re on theme without even trying.
Why do I get the feeling Mom is sending me another message? I’m not sure there is a heaven, but if there is, I hope she’s too busy having a damn good time up there to keep up with me.
The idea that she’s looking out for me from above makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, though.
There’s a makeshift coat rack to our right. I drop Sally’s hand and slip my fingers into the collar of her jacket, skimming her nape. “Let me take this.”