Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
The ache catches me low in my chest. It’s sharp but sweet and tethers me to both what’s gone and what’s still here.
“I love you, Autumn,” I tell her as I press another kiss to her forehead.
“Luv ya, Bee!”
Autumn runs back over to her dollhouse, and my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter.
Logan: Everything is going to shit without you.
Logan: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. You know that. I know that. Help me. Please. I’ve already fucked two artists into sharing an exhibition slot because I don’t understand how this scheduling program works.
My throat tightens, but I won’t give him that power. Instead, I slide the phone to dark, but not even ten seconds later, it buzzes again, and the screen comes to life.
Serena: We should do a girls’ trip. Ibiza, maybe? Henry would have wanted us to support each other through such a difficult time.
Serena: Also, do you have the number for the private banker in St. Barts? I’m here and need to move some funds. I tried to get ahold of Logan, but he didn’t answer.
Good grief. My father’s widowed wife is apparently having such a difficult time with his death that she’s currently on vacation in St. Barts. Not to mention, she wants to grieve together in Ibiza and find a way to get access to more of my dead father’s money.
But seriously, why is my family so screwed up?
I laugh out loud. A bitter, genuine, but ridiculous laugh. Autumn notices.
“Funny?” she asks.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” I murmur.
She goes back to playing with her dollhouse and I’m about to sit down on the couch, but my phone vibrates again in my hand, and a deep sigh escapes my lungs. Good God. Who is it now? My dead father texting me from the freaking grave?
Tad: I’m knee-deep in riled-up sheep. And it’s so cold outside, I’m questioning my life choices. How’s your Sunday going?
Now this is a text I can entertain. Want to, even.
Me: I’m babysitting Autumn. We’re still in our pajamas.
Tad: Wanna trade?
Me: You know what? I really appreciate that offer, but I think I’ll pass.
Tad: What? Why? You have so much potential as a sheep farmer, Breeze. I’ll even offer my mentoring services.
Me: From what I hear from the Red Bridge busybodies, those sheep mostly farm you…
Tad: Lies. Slander. Unfounded rumors.
I snort, shaking my head.
Me: Uh-huh. And what excuse do you have for me literally seeing five of your sheep in the town square two days ago?
Tad: Sabotage. Clearly, someone planted them to ruin my reputation.
Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
I laugh so loudly Autumn joins in, though she has no idea why.
Tad: Glad I got you laughing. I like picturing that.
Heat prickles at the base of my neck. Damn him. Why is he always so much fun?
Me: Careful, Farmer. You’re supposed to be tending your flock, not distracting me from being a good babysitter.
Tad: Who says I can’t do both, City Girl? It’s called multitasking, and I’m a pro. Wanna come over tonight, and I’ll prove it to you?
Me: And how exactly are you going to multitask?
Tad: You’d be surprised what my mouth and my fingers can do at the same time.
Me: Challenge accepted.
I school my face into perfect neutrality, but inside, I’m melting.
Autumn claps her hands along with the song that’s now coming from the television. “Dance, Bee! Dance, Bee!” she demands as she wiggles her hips in this adorable little side-to-side motion.
I set my phone down and do exactly that, shaking my hips and clapping my hands right along with Autumn.
She’s giggling and beaming at me with a full-toothed, toddler grin, and I’m laughing like a woman who doesn’t have the weight of a fallen empire on her shoulders.
When the music fades, I collapse onto the couch, breathless and smiling. Autumn curls up beside me, her eyes fixated on her television show and her little hand clutching mine.
While I enjoy my niece’s sweet little cuddles, my gaze drifts to my half-finished knitting project—fingers crossed it actually turns into a scarf—sitting on the armchair. Peggy Samuel had been working on one at CAFFEINE last week, and since I wasn’t doing much besides staring at a blank screen, she gave me a free lesson over coffee.
Now, I’ve got a tangle of uneven stitches and a ball of yarn the color of sunshine. And even though it’s probably not going to turn into a scarf someone will actually want to wear, I still kind of love it.
And deep down, I love that I’m giving something like knitting a chance.
But maybe that’s the real reason I can’t seem to settle on any plans that have me heading back to New York. Currently, my days aren’t dictated by deadlines, exhibitions, high-priced art negotiations, or anyone else’s expectations.
Instead, they’re filled with my niece’s giggles and smiles, and Norah’s and Bennett’s warmth and support, and Josie’s friendship, and the simple rhythm of a town that actually notices when you walk through the door.