Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Hope’s mouth is open, though she’s covering it with her hands, and her eyes are glittery. “Oh my gosh! That’s awful! Were you okay? Was she? Did she reach out after that mess? Apologize or anything?” I think she has at least a dozen more questions all vying to get out at once.
I chuckle, in awe of her sweetness and kind heart. “Nah, I wrote her a letter from juvie, trying to explain why I sold her out, but she was mad that I sent her boyfriend away. And furious when I left her too. Said I ruined her life. Eventually, she got over him and forgave me, but we only talk a few times a year. Superficial, you know—How you doing? Do you need anything? I guess we both landed on our feet. Like a cat, I’ve got nine lives.”
Hope goes quiet as she stares out the windshield. I wish I could read her mind because it’s obvious she’s turning everything I’ve said over and over. Finally, she looks back at me and smiles sadly. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
I keep my eyes focused on the road. “No big deal. Some people have it better, others have it worse. I’ve made my peace with it.”
That’s true as long as you count packing all my issues into a box, wrapping the whole damn thing in duct tape and spikes, and shoving it into a back corner of my mind. If that counts, I’m downright fucking Zen.
“I think that’s why you’re unflappable.”
“Un-what-able?” I semi-echo.
Her smile grows into something with more light. “Unflappable. No matter what I keep throwing at you, you take it in stride. Runaway bride? No biggie. Pissed-off ex? Meh, I can take him. Meeting my family? Just a normal day. Nothing gets to you.”
She’s right in some ways, but oh-so wrong in others.
“People,” I grunt. “People get to me. Don’t like them looking at me, condemning me as some worthless punk or thinking I got to where I am by luck. I’ve worked hard my whole life to not end up where everyone assumed I would—prison or a street corner.”
“And you succeeded,” she praises me. “It sounds like you and Sean have a good thing going, so I’m sure you’ll figure things out. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be fighting with him, so the fact that you’re still arguing with each other shows how much you both care.”
People use. People abuse. All in a refusal to lose. You don’t see it. You see sunshine where I see rain. You see hope where I see pain.
I reach over, weaving my fingers under her hair to grip the back of her neck. She melts into my touch and rests her head back as she turns those sparkling eyes to me. “Thank you,” I tell her, meaning every syllable. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”
Her smile is easy. For one split second.
But the moment’s broken by the sound of a siren right behind us. I glance up into the rearview mirror and see red and blue lights.
“Fuck a duck.”
Usually, cussing about the police would be my gut reaction since me and the law aren’t exactly best buds. But this time, it’s Hope, and I go into defensive mode because she’s freaking out enough for the both of us. “Is it Sheriff Laurier? Shit, shit, shit. I’m gonna kill Roy if his dad arrests me for not marrying him. That’s not even illegal, probably. Breach of a verbal contract at best.”
“Stay calm. We’re good.”
I pull over to the side of the road, turn my flashers on and the car off. As much as I hate to let go of Hope, I put my hands on the steering wheel, up high where they’re visible. I know the drill. I’ve done this before.
Except something tells me small-town justice is different from what I’m used to.
“Good afternoon, sir. Uh, hey, Hope,” the man says as he walks up to the driver’s window. He’s in his late twenties, I’d guess, with a fresh undercut, sharply trimmed beard, and a gym-bro vibe despite the crisp uniform.
Hope’s release of her nervously held breath is audible as she sees it’s not Sheriff Laurier. “Oh hell, you scared the bejesus outta me. Hey, Brandon,” Hope responds, apparently familiar with Officer Bro. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Deputy West for now, please,” he corrects her, standing on formality.
Hope narrows her eyes, looking at him like a second head just sprouted on his shoulder and is speaking Latin. When he holds firm, she sasses back, “Seriously? M’kay, I’ll remember that next time you come in to see Dr. Payne. You can call me Miss Barlowe while I’m scraping the tartar off that weird back molar of yours.”
His lips turn down at the corners, but he doesn’t otherwise react. “Sir, I pulled you over because it seems like you might be having some difficulty driving. You made a questionable U-turn, and then it seemed like you swerved when the road is perfectly straight. How much have you had to drink today?” He thinks he’s slick, using every subjective qualifier like “might be having difficulty” and it “seemed like” I swerved, and not asking if I had alcohol, but rather how much.