Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
And I’m definitely not thinking about the fact that I saw him naked.
Very naked.
Nope, definitely not thinking about that right now.
Especially not when he’s walking straight toward me because that would be creepy and out of the ordinary. Creepy, me thinking of him naked. Out of the ordinary, him coming over to speak to me.
Buddy and I pause on the sidewalk outside our house.
River comes to a stop in front of me. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The same boots on his feet as he had on last night. A beanie on his head, covering that thick hair of his.
It’s cooler today—thankfully. I’m wearing a long, chunky dark green sweater over black leggings with some walking boots I picked up the other day on discount, and a black-and-white-checkered scarf is knotted around my neck, my hair down and doing its own thing.
“Red,” he says in that low, dark voice of his.
“River.” I smile at him.
He doesn’t smile back. Or say anything else.
Just stands there, staring at me from beneath those lowered brows in that dark, brooding way of his. But I notice there’s something else in his expression. I can see it in the set of his jaw and the tightness around his eyes. It looks like discomfort.
He’s uncomfortable.
I didn’t know he could feel the emotion.
This is a guy who had no problem standing stark naked in front of me last night. Or saying whatever is in his head. So, I have to wonder what has him feeling uncomfortable.
Maybe it’s because he thanked you last night, a voice in my head says.
It could be that. I can’t imagine River is used to thanking anyone for anything.
But he doesn’t need to feel uncomfortable about that.
I want to ask him if that is it. Reassure him that he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable about it. But I’m not as straightforward as he is.
So, instead, I opt to ask what he wants—in a non-rude way, of course—when I notice my gardening fork in his hand.
“Is that mine?” I gesture to it.
He looks down at my gardening fork in his hand, like just remembering it’s there. “Oh. Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I found it on my living room floor. Thought you might need it. You know, for the next time you decide to do another breaking and entering.”
“Funny.” I take the gardening fork from him. “And I don’t plan on doing any breaking and entering ever again.”
“That so?”
“Yep.”
“Shame. The highlight of my week was seeing those pajamas of yours.”
For some reason, his words make me flush.
Maybe it’s because you’re thinking about the fact that, when you saw him, he wasn’t wearing any pajamas.
I cough, clearing my throat, which turns into a bit of a choke when I breathe back my own spit.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yep.” I cough again, banging my hand to my chest to clear it.
I’m definitely not thinking about him naked at all. Nope.
“Is the baby okay?”
“What?”
“Your baby.” His eyes go down to my stomach.
I’m still not showing. But then I am only ten weeks. I figure I’ll pop anytime soon.
I instinctively press my hand to my stomach. “Oh, yes. All fine. No problems at all.” So far, no morning sickness, and I think, if I were going to get it, I would’ve by now.
An awkward silence ensues between us. You know, the type where you have no idea what to say next but no idea how to end the conversation either.
And, for some inexplicable reason, I don’t want the conversation to end just yet.
Weirdly, I do actually like talking with him. Well, verbally sparring with him. When I’m not making an ass out of myself in front of him, and he’s not being a mean jerk to me.
But a part of me also wants him to do his River thing and just turn and walk away without another word.
Confusing, to say the least.
I guess one of us should say something. And it looks like that someone is going to be me.
“So, uh … thanks for bringing this back.” I lift the fork in gesture. “I, um … I guess I’ll see you around.”
“You and the mutt going somewhere?” he asks, stopping me before I get a chance to leave.
I smile, ignoring the mutt comment. I know he only does it to get a rise out of me. And that oddly makes me happy, too.
I bite down on the smile and turn back to him. “Yes. Buddy and I are going to buy a Christmas tree.”
“Where are you getting it from?”
“The hardware store in town.”
“The trees are shit. They don’t last a week.”
“Oh.” My built excitement at my Christmas tree shopping sinks down into the ground.
“You need to go to Thistleberry Farm. They have the best Christmas trees,” he tells me.
That has me perking up a little. “Where is Thistleberry Farm?”