Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
What am I going to say?
The thought of talking to him, of seeing him for the first time in months, creates an ache beneath my ribs. It’s like I’m on a roller coaster and we’re nearly to the top of the climb. The anticipation of just how deep the drop is going to be is killer. This isn’t how I’d like our first interaction after all this time to be, but it’s too late for that now.
Hartley is the kind of man who blends into the scenery at first. He’s all quiet confidence and unshakable peace, not needing attention or approval. But then you see him, and it’s over.
Your eyes find him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re pulled to him because just existing in his bubble somehow makes you better. He’s so handsome that he’s beautiful, and so competent that it’s sexy.
He’s also my past. And there’s no way that he’ll ever be my present … or future.
“Maybe I should turn around and just let Oscar show up with the pig and hope he doesn’t mention me,” I mumble, darting around another pothole. “I might be able to float him an extra hundred to keep his mouth shut.”
Thick vegetation pokes around the slats of wooden fencing that border the long driveway to the main house. It’s been a long time since I was last here at the ranch. Two years, to be exact. It was a week after we buried my grandfather, and Lolly sent me over to return a tray that Hartley’s housekeeper, Cathy, sent to the house filled with pecan pie. My favorite. But despite the length of time since my last visit, nothing has changed out here. There’s something comforting about that.
My palms sweat against the leather steering wheel as I grow closer to Hartley’s. Maybe I should try to call him one more time …
I press his name and the ringing belts through the car’s speakers before I’m ready. But what I’m really not ready for is for him to answer.
“Hey,” he says, his thick, honeyed tone tinged with frustration.
My body recognizes his voice before it registers in my brain. It’s an instant shot of dopamine, a hit of serotonin that washes away my nerves.
“Well, hey to you,” I say, keeping my words as light as possible. “I’ve been calling you all morning.”
“I saw that.”
Oh. “So were you not answering me on purpose?”
“That depends on which call you’re talking about. The first … I don’t know, fifteen? No. The last six? Yes.”
That leaves me with several questions, but I don’t have time to ask them.
“I need to talk to you,” I say instead.
“I’m busy.”
“It’ll take five minutes.”
“Darlin’, I don’t have five minutes to spare you right now.”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way his nickname for me still melts me after all these years. “Then I’ll talk super fast.” The top of the farmhouse comes into view as I round the last small curve. “I’m almost at your house, actually. Will you meet me there? Or I can come out to the fields to see you. Just tell me where you are.”
“Gosh dammit,” he says, his voice growing more distant. “Cathy! Watch out!”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The question leaves my lips as the last of the trees give way, and the scene at Hartley’s plays out in front of me in slow motion.
Cathy’s arms are flailing. Hart’s right-hand man, Bobby, dives across the yard as if he’s about to catch a football pass. Oscar waddles as fast as his short legs will carry him across the lawn with a wild, slightly petrified look stamped on his face.
They’re all in pursuit of a little pink pig … headed straight for Cathy’s garden.
Hartley leans against his truck with his thick arms folded across his barreled chest and a carefully arched brow directed at me.
Oops.
CHAPTER
TWO
Mira
“I can explain,” I say before I’m even out of the car.
“I figured.”
The door swings closed behind me, and I shove my heart-shaped sunglasses onto the top of my head. In the distance, chaos continues to unfold. Shouts, shrieks, and the distinct sound of oinking create a cacophony of background sounds—how do I smooth this over?—but all that fades into oblivion as my gaze settles on him.
The warmth from his deep brown eyes spread through my body—heating my chest, coloring my cheeks—coiling into an almost too tight ball in my core.
It’s unfair how well time treats him.
Hartley has always been devastatingly handsome—a fact I’m uncertain he knows, but he probably couldn’t care less if he did. The more years that pass, the better he becomes. He fills out the denim wrapped around his muscled thighs, and his shoulders are as broad as the barn behind him. And his mustache? Stupid hot.
His physical appearance is enough to throw any woman off kilter, but that’s not even his superpower. That lies in his charm. He has a seemingly effortless ability to … be. There’s no flash, no force, and absolutely no performance in anything he says or does. He’s just a quiet gravity that’s steady and grounding in a way I’ve only ever felt around him.