Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 43540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
I let out a slow yet relieved sigh. “Oh, cool. And yeah. I wasn’t thinking anything—”
“Cal—”
“Just drop it, Romeo.” I place the frame on the mantel and walk over, taking a seat at the counter.
He shakes his head. “Here, eat up.” He slides a plate across to me, and my stomach instantly growls, reminding me I skipped dinner. Again.
“This looks good, thanks.” I shove a slice of bacon in my mouth. “What can I help with today?”
“You?”
“Yeah, me. See anyone else here?”
“Since when does Callie Baker like to get her hands dirty?”
I take another bite. “A lot of things have changed about me, Easton Cruz,” I reply and wiggle my brows.
“Noticed the tattoo on your thigh hasn’t.” I gaze down at my exposed thigh. The one and only tattoo I have with Easton’s initials.
“Don’t hold out hope for that one. Costs more to get them removed than put on. I’ve almost hit my fundraising goal, though.”
“Wouldn’t bother. It looks good on you. Always has.”
I shrug, trying to hide how his compliments affect me. “Nobody even knows what it is. Whoever asks about it, I tell them that EC stands for extra cool, which is pretty legit.”
Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say. Easton’s smile falls, and his eyes darken.
“Who gets to see that?” The question is asked by a man ready to slay.
“Oh! No. Not like that. I tried teaching swim lessons at the YMCA last year. My therapist said it could be a good coping skill. It was just a bunch of curious kids. Couldn’t really tell them they were the initials of my broody ex. So I lied.”
“Hmm. . .”
He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes trained on me. I wish I was in his head right now to get an idea of what he’s thinking about. I said no talking about last night, but we’ll need to at some point. A lot was said. Truths revealed. He still loves me. And I confessed a truth I’ve been harboring for almost two years. That I still love him. It felt strange to admit that. I’ve worked so hard to pretend I don’t. The bigger issue is where do we go from here?
“Hmm yourself. I’m gonna get dressed. Hide my extra cool tattoo. Meet you back in twenty?”
He nods, and I jump off the stool to escape his heavy stare.
***
“Easton?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“Do you ever think about the future?”
“What do you mean?”
I turn in his arms. His eyes look tired. A man fell off the rig at his site today and died. I should have gone home and let him sleep. I know the accident is affecting him. It’s affecting me too. “The future. Where you see yourself in ten years.”
He tugs me closer, pressing his forehead to mine. “What’s going through that head of yours?”
“Nothing. . . sorry. I think I’m getting my period or something,” I say, wiping my tears. “It’s just. What happened today? What if that was you? What if—”
“Hey, it wasn’t. I’m right here.”
“I know. But I can’t stop thinking about what if. I can’t imagine you not coming home one day. And I see you coming home to me for a really long time. And if that happens, I don’t know—”
I start to cry. Easton cups my cheeks, gently kissing my nose, cheek, and forehead. “Callie Baker. I will never leave you. There will never be a day that I don’t walk through that door to you.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Nothing will ever keep me away from you. I would fight anything and anyone who gets in my way. Even death. No one is messing with our future. And the way I envision it, it’s a damn good one.”
***
Easton must have needed less than twenty minutes because when I walk out of the bathroom, he’s already in the bedroom, hard at work. And shirtless, might I add. “Is that part of the job?” I ask, grabbing his attention. He straightens and wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Is what?”
“Being shirtless. That how you always work?”
“Usually just me, babe. No one else around to complain.”
And who’s complaining now? Not me. Wiping the drool off my mouth, I ask, “What can I do?”
He nods to the can of paint. “Think you can handle a little painting?”
“Pfft. . . do you know me?”
His chest rumbles with humor. “Yeah. Why I asked.”
I wave him off. “Move over. I got this. What needs painting?”
“Start with priming that wall.” He watches me with wary eyes as I get to work. When he feels confident I can paint within the lines, he brings his attention back to laying the floor. We’re quiet for the first hour. Painting takes a lot of concentration. Every so often, I sneak a peek at him.
Why is a man who works with his hands so damn sexy? Tory’s a sucker for a man in a suit, and Ashley wants that fairytale prince charming who will give her that white picket fence. Me? I loved a man who worked with his hands. The laboring type. Hell, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, watching his muscles flex as he steadies the nail gun and shoots the nail into the floor. His concentration. The way his brows knit together. The way he’s kneeling that makes his washboard stomach clench and flex. His happy trail—