Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Oh, cowboy, this is exactly how I want to start my day every morning.
The thought turns me on. It also terrifies me.
He breaks the kiss and rests his forehead on mine, our noses touching. “Lemme take you to dinner.”
My heart twists. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Am I actually going to say yes this time?
“I am.” He presses his lips to mine. “You gonna run again?”
My first instinct is to fight the smile that pulls at the edges of my lips.
Today, I let the smile win. “I’m not going anywhere, am I?”
“‘Persistence pays off’ is our new motto, huh?”
“I am all about the long game.”
“501.” I feel his mouth move into a smile against mine. “I remember. So is that a yes?”
My pulse thumps. My every instinct screams at me to turn him down. Dates are dangerous. If he gets too close, he’s going to see my ugly parts. It’s safer to keep him at arm’s distance. We can still sleep together. We can even have a baby together. But we don’t have to date.
I call bullshit.
I’m so sick of my bullshit. I don’t know how to let go of my fear of letting people in. But I think a date—an honest-to-goodness date—is a good place to start.
“Yes.”
“Aw, yeah.” He ducks his head to kiss my neck. “There’s a fundraiser at Ella and June’s school on Saturday at five thirty. What if, after that, I come grab you—”
“Wait. What’s this fundraiser about?”
“You bid on the kids’ art, they sing some songs for you, and everyone feels good about it. It’s an hour, tops. I can be at your front door by seven at the latest.”
I swallow. I don’t know why—oh, girl, you totally know why—but the thought of going to the girls’ fundraiser gives me butterflies. “Could I possibly come with you? To the fundraiser, I mean.”
Dinner sounds really nice—that’s a given. But I’m surprised that the butterflies flap their wings a little faster when I think about going to the fundraiser too.
I imagine the entire Rivers family will be there, along with a good chunk of the community here in Hartsville. Duke and I showing up together as a couple—that is a hard launch.
But if we decide to have this baby, people are going to know we are—were—together anyway. Who am I kidding? They probably already do.
I just get this absurd and absurdly warm and fuzzy feeling when I think about attending the fundraiser as part of the Rivers family. Ella is a doll and so is Junie, and they’ll be thrilled by a big turnout. I imagine very few kids in their class will have ten people show up for them at this thing.
How cool would it be if the Riverses showed up for our baby too?
If they showed up for us?
Duke straightens and looks me in the eye, brow scrunched. “You really wanna come to that?”
“I do, yeah.”
“It is really cute. I think you’d like it.”
“I’m in. If you’ll have me, of course.”
He chuckles. “Oh, sweetheart, I always wanna have you. This time, though, I’d love to take you to dinner before we get naked.” He pushes up on his arms so he can meet my eyes. “So it’s a date? A real one?”
I wrap my arms around Duke’s neck and pull him down for a kiss, too scared to look him in the eye as I say, “It’s a date. A real one.”
____
I have limited experience with first dates.
With dating in general, really.
But the few first dates I’ve been on have been awkward as hell. Do you hug when you meet? Or is a kiss on the cheek better? And the chemistry—if it’s not there at first, do you cut your losses and run? Or do you give the connection a chance to grow?
Duke puts all those concerns to bed before our first date even begins.
I emerge from the guest room—all my stuff is still in there—dressed and ready to go. I catch a glimpse of Duke standing in the hall by the front door, which is open to the delicious spring breeze. His back is to me, and he’s looking down at his phone, so he doesn’t notice me yet.
My stomach nosedives when I take in his handsomeness. He’s wearing a clean pair of jeans and the “going out” boots he had on back in Dallas. A crisp white button-up shirt, freshly ironed, is tucked into a thick leather belt, the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to reveal enormous forearms that are crisscrossed with large veins and dotted with freckles.
And then—fuck me—there’s the cowboy hat.
It’s one I haven’t seen on him before. Dressier than the one he usually wears to work, this hat is dark brown, felt, and in pristine condition, not a smudge or speck of dirt in sight. Duke looks good in it.