Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“You go do that. You know the way back.”
We don’t embrace again, but a shared look kind of says all either of us needs to. I walk toward the door but stop just shy of opening it. “Hey, Dad?”
“Yes?”
“It also feels good to be back with family again.”
He’s not a sentimental guy by any means, but even I can see the emotion swarming in his eyes. “I’m glad you’re back, son.”
I walk out into the shade of the covered sidewalk and stroll to the truck. The rain stopped before I crossed county lines, but the sun still struggles to come back out. I don’t mind springtime storms. It’s like the Earth’s way of replenishing itself. I have so many memories of the rain in the Amazon while exploring, and the storm that rolled in too fast to escape when hiking in Nepal. The storms in Australia were wild one summer but a welcome reprieve from the heat. I remember recording the sound of raindrops hitting palm leaves as I stood underneath them during a quick shower in Hawaii.
After starting the truck, I pull out onto streets that haven’t dried yet. These storms and the rain here are different. The dry ground begs for it to prevent cracking. The crops will only survive if we get what’s needed to protect them. I will never complain about the rain after experiencing so many droughts growing up in Texas.
The drive isn’t long—another fifteen, twenty minutes on a slow day. When I see the weathered metal Rollingwood Ranch sign arched high above the cattle guard embedded in the ground, I know I’m finally home.
CHAPTER 3
Cricket
“He wasn’t cute,” I say, unimpressed as I drop my purse on the top of my desk.
Savvy sits back in her chair, grinning like she already knew how this would play out, though I know she’s still in the dark regarding splash-gate and the infamous Mr. Greene. “Do tell.”
“He’s an ass just like every other athlete I’ve met or made the poor decision to date.”
“Do we have a number to assign to ‘every other athlete’ you’ve met, or are we just generalizing this morning?”
I flop down in my chair, already over this week, and it’s only Tuesday. “Yeah,” I say, laughing. “That number is none of your beeswax.”
She laughs, sitting forward again and resting her arms on the wooden top. “You never share the good stuff.”
“I’ve shared plenty of good stuff when there was good stuff to share.” Popping my shoulders up playfully, I start shuffling papers around and organizing the top of my exceptionally messy desk. “There hasn’t been any good stuff to share in so long that I’m not even sure what ‘good stuff’ entails anymore.” I punctuate the statement by dropping two pens into a cup holder.
“But there could be.” Savvy types on her laptop, her eyes locked on the screen. “When I look into those incredible eyes of his, ass is nowhere to be found.” Her eyebrow quirks before she aims her gaze at me again. “Six-three. Rawr. Brown hair. Full. Thick with a perfect wave to entice fingers to run through it. Gorgeous blue eyes.”
“Are we talking about twenty-two or some other rand—”
“Griffin Greene is smoking hot, if you ask me, which slightly offends me because you didn’t.” She cracks a smile.
I shake my head. The last thing I want to talk about is that guy. I can’t help myself, though. It’s like a carrot of tidbits being dangled in front of me. “The website actually says perfect wave to entice fingers and gorgeous blue eyes?” What site is she looking at exactly? I’m tempted to pull it up and do my own research.
“No. I added to it for flair, but I’m not wrong. Come see for yourself.”
“No, thank you,” I reply, trying to pretend I’m not utterly engrossed in this description as much as she is. I kind of hate myself for showing interest.
She double blinks as if she’s returned to her original mission. “College degree in anthropology.” Guess she is. “Single.” She practically purrs the word.
Pretending to ignore this casual sales pitch, I tap papers on the top of my desk. “Did he recently hire you for his personal PR? Because you’re doing a stellar job of selling him.” Locking my gaze on hers, I add, “But I’m not buying. Men are nothing but trouble for me. Always have been. Always will be.”
“No one said you had to marry the guy. And . . .” Raising her finger in the air like I imagine Einstein doing when he made a great discovery, she says, “Blake said he only flew in for the fundraiser. You can’t have fundraising without a little fun. It’s literally in the word itself.”
I burst out laughing. It was a struggle to hold it in, but she wins. “You’re an incurable romantic.” I soften my smile to one less revealing. “But I’m not.” I glance down at the papers still in my hands. The sweet blue-and-red squiggly drawings I got for my birthday maintain my smile, but the love for my guy still feels too big to carry inside, even after all this time. It only grows larger.