Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Well, I’m proud of you,” I tell him, giving his fingers a squeeze. “And not in the way you’re proud of me for doing nothing but walk up a hill,” I say, and he chuckles, the sound easing the pain around my heart and the lines around his eyes.
“Thanks, sunshine.”
“Anytime,” I say, shifting to look out the windshield.
“We’re here.” He flips on the turn signal and turns onto a dirt road lined with tall spruce and pine trees.
At the sight of a log cabin–style home with a large arch of windows and a wraparound porch, my breath catches in my throat. I never tried to picture where he might live, but if I had, it would have been a cool condo or something similar. Not this. The home in front of me looks like the house I grew up in, the wooden structure blending in with its surroundings and making it feel like a piece of the landscape instead of standing out.
“This is where you live?”
“This is it.” He sounds nervous, so I turn to face him.
“It . . . it’s beautiful.” I bite my lip, then shake my head. “I have to show you something.” I dig through my bag until I find my phone, then quickly search my photos until I find the one I’m looking for. “Here.” I hold out my cell to him, and he takes it, studying the picture I took, looking confused. “That’s my house in Oregon, or the house I grew up in.”
“Seriously?” His eyes meet mine, and I nod, my throat tight.
“How wild is that?”
“Wild,” he agrees, looking out the windshield before dropping his gaze to the photo once more. The two homes that are thousands of miles apart look almost identical, which should be impossible but is obviously not. Another connection we didn’t even know we shared. “I designed this place myself,” he says, sounding like he’s talking more to himself than me.
“My mom spent a year drawing up designs for our house. The builder threatened to quit at least once a week, because she could never make up her mind on what she wanted.” I smile as a million memories come back to me and then take my phone back, studying the photo. “All she cared about was the light. She was an artist at heart.” I look at him and swallow when I see the look in his eyes.
“How about we go inside?” he suggests, and I nod, watching him get out of Sammy, and then a moment later, he opens my door and lifts me out. Taking his hand, I walk with him toward the front porch of the cabin, then stand back as he types in a code and opens the door.
I step in when he motions me to enter before him and am slightly disappointed when the place looks nothing like the house I grew up in. The walls are bare instead of covered with paintings and photos, and the wood floors are naked rather than covered with random mismatched rugs to keep out the cold. After setting down my purse on the island in the kitchen, I go to the open living room and turn in a circle. Where the house I grew up in was worn from time and use, everything here is new and modern. Top-of-the-line appliances fill the kitchen, high-back barstools line the counter, and a comfortable-looking gray-suede L-shaped couch takes up most of the large living room in front of the fireplace, where the TV is hung.
“I love it.” I stop turning and look out the windows into the forest, noticing a big building tucked into the woods with two glass rolling bay doors. “What’s that?”
“My bike, a couple of four-wheelers, and some of the backup equipment for the lodge.” He comes to stand at my side. “I’ll show you around the property later, but for now, I’m gonna get you your pill. While you rest, I’m going to take my bike down to pick up my truck and go to the grocery store, since the fridge is basically empty except for a couple of eggs.”
“I can drive you,” I tell him, and he gives me a look that has me holding up my good hand. “Or not.”
“Yeah, or not.” He leans in, touching his lips to my forehead. “Be right back.” He turns and heads outside, and a few minutes later, he returns carrying my bags and his. He takes them down a hall, then reappears holding my pill bottle.
“Thanks.” I meet him in the kitchen, where I take my pill and the glass of water he hands to me.
“You wanna hang out here, or do you wanna lie down in bed and try to sleep?” he asks as I swallow the pill down.
At the reminder that I’ll be spending the week in his bed, my face warms, which is ridiculous, given the fact that I’ve already slept beside him every night since I got here. “If the pill hits me like it did last night, I’ll probably fall asleep.” I hold up my hand. “Dr. Smooth said the pain would only last a couple of days. I hope he’s right, because I hate taking these pills and sleeping so much.”