Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102361 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
He searches my gaze, not even cracking half of a smile at my creepy comment, and then the next thing I know, he stands, sets our mugs aside, and offers me his hand.
Sliding my palm against his, I’m confused as hell as he leads me down the sidewalk, across the street, and up the walk to the big front porch.
“Uh, I mean, we don’t have to do this now …”
Brooks pulls some keys out of his pocket, unlocks the front door, and pushes it open, then steps back.
“You want to have a look? Go have a look, Juliet.”
My mouth goes slack as I frown, and my feet are rooted to this spot as I stare up at this amazing man I’m already so in love with, it makes my chest ache.
“What?” My voice is nothing but a whisper. He lifts his free hand and brushes his thumb over my lower lip.
“Go ahead, baby.”
I glance inside and then back up at him.
“Brooks, why do you have a key to this house?”
He doesn’t answer. He just pulls me by the hand over the threshold, closes the door behind us, and starts turning on the lights.
The air is a little musty, like no one has lived here in a long time, but it’s clean. The original hardwood floors need to be sanded and refinished. There’s a gorgeous staircase straight ahead that leads up to the second floor.
Brooks guides me past what looks like a little study, then a living room—these old houses weren’t open floor plans—and then into a kitchen that has my eyes bugging out.
Not because it’s gorgeous and new.
No, this kitchen has avocado-green appliances from the 1970s and faded orange wallpaper. I can see the outline of where pictures hung on the walls. The cabinets are dark brown. The floor is yellow laminate.
It needs to be gutted.
“Brooks—”
“It’s my house. Our house, really,” he says, his voice soft but still echoing a bit in the empty room. “It came on the market a few years ago, and I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else buying it. You always loved it.”
Holy fucking shit.
My heartbeat speeds up, my breaths quicken.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
“Brooks—”
“I’ve thought about selling it,” he admits with a shrug as he looks around. “Buying a hundred-year-old house is a lot. And I’m not just talking financially. It needs a lot of work, so before you and I … well, I thought about selling it.”
The tears roll unchecked down my cheeks.
“You bought me a whole house.”
“Two of them.” He turns and looks me in the eyes now and leans back against the old Formica countertop, his hands on the counter at his hips.
“What do you mean?”
He glances toward the front of the house and lifts his chin, gesturing to his home across the street.
“You asked me how long I’ve lived over there.” He clears his throat, pushes his hand through his hair, and I can see that he’s nervous.
Brooks is never nervous.
So I cross to him and take his hand in mine, lift it to my lips.
“I’ve lived there for fifteen years,” he says quietly, and my gaze whips up to his. “Every house I’ve ever bought was done with you in mind.”
I wrinkle my forehead, doing the math. “But fifteen years—”
“Yeah, baby. That last day, when the asshole manipulated you into going back to Seattle?”
I can’t force any words over the huge lump that’s formed in my throat, so I just nod. That was the worst day of my life.
“I was going to propose to you that day.”
The world shifts beneath my feet, and I start to shake my head as pure anguish fills me. The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
“I’d already bought the house,” he continues. His voice is so rough. Full of so much raw emotion. “It was a fixer-upper, but I planned to have it ready by the time you finished school for good and moved home.”
“Brooks.” My voice breaks on his name, and he scoops me against him, clinging to me almost desperately. “Fuck.”
“I was going to surprise you and take you to the house. I had flowers and balloons all over the place, thanks to the help of my mom and the rest of the family. Then we were going to have a little party at the ranch,” he says, peppering the top of my head with kisses.
No.
God, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
“You begged me to stay.” I’m crying against his chest, unable to hold in the sobs, grieving what we both lost. “You told me that you needed me, and I was too blinded, too fucking overwhelmed—”
“Hey, shh.”
“No, you should hate me.” I step out of his arms and walk across the room to the wide windows that look out over the backyard. There’s a concrete patio out there, where I would put a pergola and furniture and God. “You should still hate me, Brooks. Shit, I hate me.”