Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
My poems were never meant to be whispered in dim-lit cafés.
They’ve always belonged on stages, in melodies, with twangy guitars and voices that bleed.
They’ve always been country love songs.
You saw it before I did.
I wish I would’ve warned you—
That I’d miss you like this.
That it would hurt this much.
Always,
Emily
I reread the letter. Redraft it ten more times.
But no matter how I rearrange the words, they never hold the weight of what I feel.
Not fully.
So I hold it over the flame of my lighter.
Watch the edges curl, blacken, and disappear.
And I don’t dare write it again.
44
COLE
My first gallery is sold out, and I have a feeling the only reason most people bought tickets is to catch a glimpse of “the disgraced Mr. Dawson’s son”—to see how I’m holding up after all the scandals.
But I don’t care.
A ticket sold is a ticket sold.
While I’m making sure there’s enough space in the bar area, a knock sounds at the front door.
“Coming!” I push a table into line and rush over.
It’s Frank.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
“I heard you were hosting your first gallery this weekend.”
“I am.” I cross my arms. “Doors don’t open until Saturday night.”
“Right, well, if it’s alright with you, can I get a sneak peek today?”
“No.” I shut the door and walk over to my first piece.
As I’m realigning the title pad, the side door creaks open, and Frank strolls in.
“I’m friends with the city engineer,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t let me in the front.”
“So why even try?”
“Because you deserve to slam the door in my face a million times after the way I’ve treated you.” His voice cracks. “Cole, I had no idea your father was the driver that night. And I didn’t know how terrible he’s been to you all your life.”
“A lot of people would’ve flipped on him a long time ago…”
“I had to play the long game,” I say, echoing something I haven’t admitted aloud in a long time. “Plus, I wanted to believe he’d changed. That he’d keep his word and repay the favor.”
“I owe you a lot of favors, too.” He steps closer and pulls me into a quick, tight hug. “Need any help with your opening?”
“Is there any way you could get Emily here?”
“I’ve been trying to do that for weeks.” His face softens. “I’ll keep working on it. But in the meantime, let me help you make this the best debut art show these people have ever seen.”
“It’s already sold out.”
“Just the first night.” He winks, wagging his finger in that mischievous way that always led to something crazy and unforgettable. “Allow me to work my magic and make sure every night hits that metric.”
44A
EMILY
EmilyGirl, 20, broken-hearted, not looking to get over my last guy—just scrolling and wishing that I could. Please heed this warning & swipe left.
It never ceases to amaze me how men simply do not read.
Since posting my new dating profile, I’ve received at least twenty private messages from strangers asking me out.
I’ve gone back on my intentions twice and joined two of them for a beer, but I regret it enough to never try again.
I need to take the advice I once gave my mother and learn how to be alone.
Even though Gatlinburg doesn’t have the star power of Nashville—aside from Dolly Parton’s theme park—it’s beautiful enough to inspire me. And close enough for aspiring songstresses to meet me halfway.
As I’m tapping my pen against a coffee cup to measure syllables, a stranger stops by my table.
“Is someone sitting here?” a deep voice asks.
“Not at all.” I keep writing. “You can take it.”
He obliges, unwrapping a bagel. “It’s a beautiful day out, huh?”
I nod. “Best day yet.”
“I’ve always loved the mountain views in this town,” he says, clearly missing the hint. “It’s the perfect backdrop for date nights.”
“Okay, look.” I set down my pen and finally meet his eyes. “I’ve seen you here all week, and you seem like a really nice guy, but I don’t want you to waste any of your time on me.” I cut through whatever soft pitch he was about to serve. “I’m single, but I’m far from ready.”
He arches a brow. “Ready for what?”
“Anything more than a friendship.”
“Um… I’ve seen you here plenty of times, too. But I only came over because your table is the only one with chairs.” He smiles, warm and amused. “Oh, and for what it’s worth, you’re a really nice girl—but I’m engaged.”
“Oh…” I exhale. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. What’s his name?” he asks.
“Who?”
“The guy you’re still in love with.”
“Cole.”
“How bad was the breakup?”
“I doubt I’ll ever get over it.”
“I know the feeling.” He slides his laptop into his bag and stands, extending a hand. “Come on. You’ve been crying here all week. You need a shoulder. Come tell me and my fiancée about it over dinner.”