Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
The parking lot’s empty, so I stop right by the porch stairs. Before I even take the key out, Margot’s trotting down the steps with a hot-pink backpack that’s almost as big as her slung over her shoulder and a long, wide Tupperware container tucked under her arm.
I jump out of the truck and meet her at the bottom of the steps. “I’m more than happy to come to the door, you know.” I slide my fingers under the strap and pull her bag off her shoulder.
“Yes, but I’m eager to see you.” She hooks her arms around my neck and lifts on her tiptoes to press a warm kiss to my lips.
“I approve.” I curl my free arm around her waist, pulling her closer. “Do I really have you for the whole weekend?”
“Sure do. Paul promised not to let my dad call me for any reason.” The first hint of nervousness ripples over her face. She stands back and sweeps her hand over her outfit—sleek, dark jeans, dark green lace-up boots, and a green and blue flannel shirt—utterly fucking adorable. “I hope this is okay. I know I promised to wear something with easier access if you wanted to chase me through the woods.” The corners of her mouth curl into a hesitant smile. “But it’s supposed to be chilly.”
“Trust me, if I want to get those pants off, they’re gone.” I pinch the soft flannel material of her sleeve and rub it between my fingers. “You look perfect.”
“I talked to Shelby.” She ducks her head, almost shyly. “She said she was wearing jeans and a hoodie, so I thought this would be okay.”
Thank you, Shelby. I hadn’t even asked her to call Margot. “I’ve got a sweatshirt or two in the truck if you get cold.”
“Or you can keep me warm.”
Chuckling, I turn her toward the truck, open the back door, and toss her bag inside, then walk her to the passenger side. “I plan to. Don’t worry.”
I swing her door open and wince as the hinges squeak. “Ahh, it’s not really…” worthy of you. “In the best shape. It runs great, we won’t get stranded or anything,” I hurry to add. “But I usually only drive it in the winter, to get groceries, or big stuff.”
Why am I acting as nervous as a high school sophomore going on my first date?
“It’s got four wheels and a roof, I’m happy.” She grips the side handle and lifts herself up into the seat but pauses midway.
“Oh! Yeah. This is for you.” I pluck the bag off the seat and hand it to her once she’s settled inside. I slam the door and hurry to my side.
She’s still staring at the bag once I get behind the wheel.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Open it.”
“I didn’t get you anything,” she murmurs, as she gently tugs the plaid ribbon free.
“You don’t have to give me anything.” I reach over and rest my hand on her leg. “You coming up there with me tonight is already a gift.”
The sweetest smile lights up her whole face as she pulls out the long, flat box.
Please don’t think it’s weird.
I don’t want that smile to leave her face.
She pries the lid off.
A tiny wrinkle forms between her eyebrows as she takes in the hand-stitched leather case. Her fingers skim over the smooth surface before she unsnaps the button at the top and carefully tips it sideways.
Her eyes widen, and her lips part as the knife slides into her open palm.
“Oh, wow!” she gasps, tracing her finger along the handle.
I knew she’d like it.
The abalone shell gleams in the afternoon light, the swirling blues and greens shifting like moonlight over the ocean. It’s elegant but tough, just like her.
She rests the box and case in her lap and carefully flicks the blade open. “It opens so smoothly. I hate when I break a nail trying to work the blade free.”
“Yeah, it was designed to be easy for daintier hands to use.” I trace my finger over her knuckles, wanting her to understand that wasn’t meant as a criticism.
She turns the knife slightly, watching how the light catches the blade’s dark rippling pattern. “That’s from the layering, right? That’s what gives it the design—kind of like a fingerprint.”
I exhale a slow breath. She knows just by looking at it. Could she be more perfect for me?
“Yeah. It’s handmade Damascus steel, layered, welded, then hammered.” I tap the side of the blade. “It holds its edge. Stronger than it looks.”
Her lips curve into a small smile at that last part.
“It’s beautiful.” She picks it up, balancing it carefully in her palm.
Then her gaze flicks up to mine, sharp and assessing. “Jigsaw,” she says, almost like a gentle scolding. “This must’ve been expensive.”
I shrug. “I thought it suited you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “How so?”