Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
It’s never worked out in the long-term, but that’s just because I love my independence so much.
Not that I’m going to have much of that here now, I suppose. He glances up when he hears the floorboard creak, and stands up, holding out a cup to me. I stare down into it – it smells like coffee, but not the good kind.
"I’m okay," I reply, lifting my hand.
"You need to have something."
"I’m fine, really."
He seems to sense the tone in my voice and that he’s not going to get through to me, so he retreats, lifting the cup to his own lips. For a moment, my gaze is drawn to his mouth, recalling how it felt against my own the night before.
"You live out here alone?" I ask, gesturing around. I’m no history buff, but I seem to remember that there were plenty of prairie towns springing up in Colorado by this time. No need for something to dedicate their life to living out in the woods, not unless they had a good reason.
"I do."
His voice is tight, careful, like there’s something he doesn’t want me to know. I cock an eyebrow.
"No family? No friends?”
"Not livin’ here."
I sigh. I can tell it’s going to be trouble coaxing the truth out of him, but if he thinks I am going to let him get away with it, he’s wrong.
"Why not?"
"What business is it of yours?"
I almost laugh.
"Well, given that you brought me out here with no explanation," I point out. "I think I deserve to know a little bit about you, right?"
"I wasn’t going to leave you out there in the cold. Doesn’t mean I want to tell you my life story."
"And I’m not asking for it, trust me!” I retort. "Jesus, forget it. I was just trying to make conversation..."
He glances back at me, and I can see him calculating something in his head, trying to work out whether he believes me. There’s something else going on here, I’m sure of it, even if he is not willing to come clean. I run a hand through my hair, trying to figure out how to coax the truth from him. I know nothing about this man, after all – well, apart from how good he is in the sack.
"Trust me, I’m not going to judge you," I promise him. "Clean slate, remember? I don’t know anything about this place."
He seems to soften then, as though he has only just figured that out. Sighing, he looks to the window, and nods towards the now-sun-soaked forest outside.
"Beyond the trees," he explains. "There’s a town. A village, really. It’s where most of the people in this county live."
"And you don’t, because...?”
"Because my family owns half the damn place and won’t stop trying to set me up with a wife suitable to inherit it."
My eyebrows nearly fire off the top of my head.
"Wait, your family are rich?”
The words escape my lips before I can stop them, and I see something in his face slam shut.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that," I reply swiftly. "I just – I'm surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think someone who had the choice would be living like..."
I gesture around, trailing off, suddenly distinctly aware of how judgmental that seems.
"What’s that mean?”
"Nothing, I just-"
"Might not be for everyone, but there’s no shame in living off the land," he fires back hotly.
"No, that’s not what I meant," I assure him. "I – I think it’s great that you live off the land, just that if I had a choice, I-"
"So you’re saying you wouldn’t live like this?" he finishes up for me, lifting his chin defiantly. "Because you’re more than welcome to get the hell out if it’s not good enough for you-"
"That’s not what I said!” I explode, before I can stop myself. "But how can you think I’m just going to accept living here? I – I want to go home! I’ve never even been that interested in history, let alone living it, and now I’m stuck here and I don’t know if there’s any way for me to get out or get back to what I knew before, and it’s just-"
I feel a sudden surge of emotion as the enormity of the situation hits me. Tears spring to my eyes again, and I grit my teeth and clench my jaw to try and contain them.
I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to seem weak. This man is all hard edges, and I won’t get through to him by falling apart.
"I just want a fucking matcha latte," I blurt out at last. I don’t even know where that came from, and it sounds so comical to me that I almost laugh, but I mean it.
By this time, back home, I would have been stopping by the little boutique coffee shop attached to my apartment block and ordering an iced matcha strawberry latte on the way to work, my daily treat.