Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
And I think about her.
About Tabitha.
The memory of her body beneath mine, her soft lips, her beautiful eyes gazing at me.
I grip the steering wheel harder, blink away the heat stinging my eyes. She’s not mine.
She made her choice.
By the time the cabin comes into view, I’m actually hungry. I’ll grill some burgers. There’s always Steel beef in the deep freezer. Tomorrow I’ll head to the market for supplies, but tonight burgers and my dog are all I need.
I park in back and kill the engine. The quiet that follows is absolute. No cars, no voices, just the whisper of wind through the pines and the faint scuttle of something small in the underbrush.
I sling my duffel over my shoulder, key in the code on the back door, and go inside.
Zach scrambles in, his claws clicking on the kitchen tile.
The cabin is quiet.
That’s the first thing I notice. No ranch hands calling across the yard. No hum of trucks, no phones buzzing. No Mom hovering and asking how I’m doing.
That’s why I came.
For the quiet. For the distance. For the space to think.
Or rather, not to think.
Not to think about her.
Never about her.
I dump my bag in the master bedroom and return to the large living area where I start a small fire. The storm winds will pick up, and I’ll be glad for the warmth. Then I sit down and lean back in an armchair, phone heavy in my palm. Francine’s number stares back at me, digits etched into my brain since I found them.
I could call.
I should call.
The last conversation wasn’t enough. It barely scratched the surface. But the thought of hearing her voice again tightens something in my chest I’m not ready to face.
Not tonight.
Besides, she’s not the one I truly want to talk to.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table and scrub a hand down my face. My head feels clear enough now. The scar’s healing, the stitches are gone, and the dull ache that used to follow me everywhere is finally receding. My hair is about a quarter inch grown in. My body’s fine. It’s everything else that isn’t.
Outside the huge picture window, the sky has become heavy, swollen with the kind of storm you can smell before it breaks. The wind threads through the trees, rattling the pine needles.
Then—
A car.
A car I recognize.
My stomach drops.
No. It can’t be.
But the crunch of tires on gravel keeps coming, closer and closer until it rolls to a stop right beside the porch steps.
The door opens. A slim figure steps out, walks to the back of the car, and pulls out a small suitcase.
A suitcase I’ve seen before.
Oh my God…
Angie…
Angie…
Angie…what the hell?
Something surges through me. I’m not sure what it is.
“Come on, boy.” I leave, head to the back, into the kitchen.
Am I hiding?
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I both want to see her more than anything in the world and I don’t.
I’m not ready.
But she’s here.
Tabitha.
Zach scurries away from me once the door opens.
He doesn’t bark. He remembers her.
Of course he does. Who couldn’t remember Tabitha? She’s the type of woman memories are made of.
What can I do?
I can’t hide in the kitchen.
Especially when I’m dying to see her, look at her, hold her…
I follow Zach back into the large great room, where Tabitha stands at the doorway, scratching my dog behind his ear.
Her hair is pulled into a loose bun. Small locks have escaped and frame her gorgeous face.
She hesitates, her jaw dropped, as she scans the inside of the house.
Our eyes meet.
It’s like being sucker punched.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Angie must have—
Of course she did.
Tabitha freezes, shoulders tight. I can see the war happening behind her eyes, the fight-or-flight instinct.
I clear my throat, voice rough. “There’s a storm on the way. You should come inside.”
She lifts her chin. “Angie invited me here to relax for the weekend. I… I didn’t know I’d have company.”
I swallow. “Neither did I.”
The silence stretches between us, sharp as a blade.
Finally, she walks into the room, every movement precise, like she’s daring me to watch. She sets her suitcase down just inside the door.
“I won’t be here long,” she says. “I just need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll return to Boulder.”
I gaze out the window at the swirling clouds. “With a storm coming? You’d better stay here.”
She draws in a breath. “Fine.”
I return to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water just to do something with my hands. Behind me, I feel Tabitha moving. She takes her shoes off and then moves around with care—too much care.
I want to turn. I want to look at her, drink her in, drag her back into my arms and remind her of what we were, even if it only lasted a weekend.
But I don’t.
Because the last time I reached for her—metaphorically, from the hospital—she didn’t come.