Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“I know my strengths.”
“Do you ever think about settling down now that your brother has? And a lot of the other guys in the club?”
“Yeah, I think about it.” But mostly only when I linked her to that future. I’d tried with other women—placing them in the spot I usually reserved for Lula. I could never get past that part. No houses together. No babies. No growing old, sitting on rocking chairs on the front porch, dating ourselves by saying shit like, ‘I remember when all this used to be empty desert.’
“And?”
“And… I think that shit happens on its own.”
“Like… fate?”
“Oh, pretty thing, I hear that snark. You don’t believe in fate?”
“I believe in… hard work. And results.”
“You think you can hard work yourself to a happy marriage?”
“A marriage is hard work.”
“Building a life and a family might be difficult, but I think the love part should be easy, don’t you?”
That got a shrug out of her.
“You do believe in love, don’t you?”
“Love? Yes. Maybe not so much romantic love.”
“Wait… what? You’re serious?”
“I mean, I think you can love someone you’re in a relationship with. But I don’t think it’s the stuff you hear about in songs or see in books and movies.”
“So, you’ve never been in love with someone you’ve dated?”
“No. Have you?”
“No. But to be fair, I haven’t really dated anyone since freshman year in high school. But I do believe in it. I see it every day when I’m in Shady Valley.”
To that, she shrugged.
“Just for that,” I said, snatching the phone out of her hand, “we are watching a romantic movie.”
“Oh, God, no.”
“Yep. You brought this upon yourself. Are you feeling summery? Or are you sick of the heat and want a cold-weather romance?”
“I want an action movie. But, I guess, cold.”
“Good. Now you’re going to watch a movie about a woman who acts like she’s engaged to a man in a coma while she falls in love with his brother. At Christmas.”
“What?”
“You’re going to love it.”
“Doubtful. Very doubtful.”
“You cold, hard cynic, you,” I said, climbing off the bed when my phone dinged with a notification. “Okay. I’m getting dessert. Then we are falling in love with Bill Pullman.”
“If you say so,” she called.
So we ate our cobbler and drank our coffee as we watched the movie. And despite her insistence that she didn’t like romantic movies, I could see how much the story pulled her in.
“What are you doing?” she asked when I paused the movie.
“Look at that look on the man’s face,” I said. “That’s love.”
“He’s acting.”
“Like a man in love. Though, to be fair, I don’t think anyone has to act like they’re in love with Sandy Bullock.”
“Are you done talking? I want to watch this blow up.”
I snorted at that but rewound a second and hit play. Then I watched her while she watched the movie.
I saw her eyes water at the big reveal.
Then go gooey at the proposal scene.
And I knew I had her.
Even if she would never admit it.
“Okay. That was a good movie,” she decided afterward. “But it is fiction.”
I turned my head on the pillow to look over at her. “What would it take to convince you it’s real?”
Her head turned as well, and I didn’t imagine the way her gaze slid to my lips, then quickly back up.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But maybe it’s a bad time to even talk about it with the whole… Drake thing.”
“Were you two more involved than you initially said?”
To that, she exhaled hard.
“No. But it was… floating there. It was a possibility. And we both kind of hinted at it. I was picturing building an empire with him.”
“Baby doll, you’re more than capable of building an empire without a man. You don’t need one for that.”
“Then what do I need one for?”
“To cheer you on. To share your successes with. To comfort you when things fall apart. To come home to…”
“To take care of me?”
“You hate that thought, don’t you?”
She pressed her lips together at that. “I think I hate the implication that I might need to be taken care of more than I hate the idea of being taken care of.”
“You don’t need it, no. But wouldn’t it be nice?”
Her gaze found mine again, and I could practically see her cataloging all the times I’d made sure to take care of her so far in both little and bigger ways: the nice motels and spa packages, the food, drinks, crafts.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “I think it would be nice.”
I could have done it then.
Leaned in.
Pressed my lips to hers.
Kissed her until she was moaning and writhing.
Rolled her under me.
Got to touch, taste, and feel every inch of her.
I could have.
She would have let me.
With any other woman, I would have taken the opportunity.
The problem was, this wasn’t any woman; this was Lula.