Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
"These mountains," I gesture beyond the workshop walls, "they're perfect for field research. The rock formations here are some of the oldest in the country." A smile tugs at my lips. "I want to finish my degree. Maybe work with the university's research team. There's a field station about forty minutes from here. But, I want to be a mom, too."
The certainty in my voice surprises me. I hadn't realized how much I still wanted this, how the dream had just been sleeping while I survived.
"You can do both. I’ll make sure. I’ll be Mr. Mom. I’ve already watched a YouTube video on the best way to change a diaper. I’m even taking notes. Oh, and this, did you see this?" Jack asks, surprising me with the change of subject. He reaches behind some tools, pulls out a folded newspaper. "They found the oldest known rock in America up in the U.P. last week."
My heart nearly stops. "What? Where?"
"Northern Michigan," he says, handing me the paper. The headline jumps out at me: 'Ancient Gneiss in Upper Peninsula Named Oldest Rock in United States.' "Scientists dated the zircon in it. Beat out rocks in Minnesota and Wisconsin that everyone thought were older."
My fingers trace the grainy photo of the banded metamorphic rock, excitement building in my chest. Gneiss—pronounced "nice"—with its distinctive mineral bands, formed under intense pressure and heat. This was exactly my field of interest before Dad got sick.
"You know what gneiss is?" I ask, looking up at him.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Only that the reporter called it 'the nation's oldest nice rock' before correcting himself. Thought of you when I heard it on the radio."
He's been paying attention. To what I love. To what matters to me.
"I want to make something that lasts," I say softly, looking up from the paper. "Maps of what's beneath us. Knowledge that matters. Something that's mine."
His thumb brushes beneath my chin.
"Then that's what you'll do." His voice wraps around me, firm and safe. "You stay here, or you don't. You paint, or write, or plant a goddamn orchard—I'll build the shed, I'll fund the dream. Just tell me what it is, and it's done."
"You believe in me that much?"
He leans in, lips brushing my jaw.
"No, baby girl. I believe in us."
He slides his hands down to my hips, lifting me easily onto the workbench. I gasp as he steps between my thighs, hands tangling in my hair.
"You think I'm just some caveman who wants to keep you barefoot and pregnant?" he murmurs, lips trailing down my neck. "I want you full and happy and mine, but that doesn't mean small."
His hands tighten on my thighs, pushing them wider as he presses closer.
"I want to watch you grow. In every way." His voice roughens. "Want to see you round with my baby, yes. But also fierce with your own purpose."
My heart stutters. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid strength there.
His cock is inside me again, pushing me to the heavenly place I never want to come back from.
When we’re done, he puts himself back in his pants, striding toward his desk against one wall of the shop, beckoning me to follow him.
"Come here a second, baby girl."
His voice is low, steady. The kind of voice you follow. I hop down, legs wobbly, walking until I’m next to him as he holds up a folder.
"What is this?" I ask, fingers brushing the corner.
His eyes don't leave mine.
"It's yours."
I open it, my eyes scanning, fingers starting to shake.
Deed papers. Bank accounts. My name. My name next to his.
"What, this is the house—"
"The house," he says, voice rough. "The land. The accounts. All of it."
My eyes blur as I flip through the pages. He's put me on everything he owns. "Jack, I can't—"
"You can. You will." He steps closer, hand sliding to cup my face. "You understand what this means?"
I shake my head.
"Means if I piss you off, you get half my mountain," he says, a rare smile touching his lips. "Means I trust you with everything I've built. Means we're in this together, for real."
"Half your mountain?" I whisper, unable to fathom the enormity of what he's giving me.
"The view's fucking epic," he says with that dangerous half-smile. "But the neighbors are assholes."
I laugh, the sound choked with tears. "Jack—"
"I watched him pull up in that fucking car," he cuts me off, voice suddenly intense. "Thinking he could take you back. Made me realize I'd burn down this whole goddamn mountain before I'd let that happen."
He pulls something from his back pocket. Small. Wood-grained. A ring.
It's carved from walnut. The same walnut he’s making the chair from. And the cradle.
He doesn't get on one knee. He grabs my chin with one hand. “Hold up your hand.”
I do, and he slides the wooden ring onto my finger, then uses his teeth to tug my bottom lip into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp.