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)
Ugh.
“How do you know the song?” I challenge.
“It was my gran’s favorite,” he says low.
Was? Does that mean his gran is no longer with us?
“Oh. Well, first off, I’m hardly a girl. And, second, you don’t know me well enough to make those kinds of assumptions. And, third, it is exactly my kind of song.” Sad like me.
“True. I don’t know you well. But I do know that you don’t curse and that you complain—very loudly—when I do.”
“I do curse. Just not excessively like you. You say the F-word every other word.”
“Not every other word. At least every third word. And, yeah, I forgot you do curse.” He mockingly taps his fingers to his forehead. “What was it? Oh, yeah. ‘You mother-fudging son of a C-U-Next-Tuesday.’” He mimics my voice—badly, might I add. “You’re a total badass, Red,” he adds drolly.
I flip him off.
Laughter bursts from him.
The sound is wonderful. Just like I heard last night. Deep and husky. But, this time, I’m seeing it, and his face is all lit up. His eyes bright with humor.
I feel a warmth in my chest. And like I just won something really special. I guess I did. Because I can’t imagine laughter is easily earned from River.
But he’s laughed twice with you—okay, at you—in two days.
And you know what? I’ll take it.
“You’re an idiot.”
“So you keep saying.”
I’m not offended this time because I’m starting to realize that, when River is doling out an insult, maybe it’s not an insult at all.
“So, you did hear me then.”
A quick glance. “When?”
“When you drove over my groceries. That’s when I yelled that you were a mother-fudging son of a C-U-Next-Tuesday.”
“Oh, yeah. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“Well … I guess … it was a shitty thing to do.”
A shitty thing to do? That’s putting it mildly.
“Is that your version of an apology?”
He glances at me, brow raised. “Best you’re gonna get.”
“Hmm … I’ll take it, I suppose. For now.”
“For now?”
I know he’s looking at me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I lean back in the seat, folding my arms over my chest, and say, “Yes. For now.”
My face is impassive. But I’m smiling inside.
Standing up to River is … fun. The most fun I’ve had in ages.
River turns his truck onto a track leading straight to Thistleberry Farm. He pulls up outside the farm store, and my heart leaps with joy.
Christmas trees are everywhere. And the store is decorated with the most amazing decorations. And there is an inflatable Santa and snowman bobbing about and fake reindeer attached to a sleigh, filled with presents.
It looks awesome. I bet it looks even better at night when it’s all lit up.
I wish I could see it at night.
River’s already out of his truck. I climb out, too. He meets me around my side with a large box in his arms, which he got from the backseat.
“It’s amazing,” I say with awe.
He gives me a look. “It’s a store.”
“I meant, the decorations and the trees. I bet it looks really pretty at night when it’s all lit up,” I voice my earlier thoughts.
“You like all this Christmas stuff, huh?”
I stare up at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”
He gives a shrug and shifts the box in his arms.
“You need a hand with that?” I ask him.
He gives me an amused look. “You’re funny, Red. Come on; let’s get this over with.”
I follow him up the few steps to the store, stopping at the window when I spot the most beautiful glass tree ornaments. “Wow … look at these. They’re gorgeous.”
There are intricate decorations—little Santas, penguins, stacked gifts, Christmas trees, snowmen and snowwomen, and even a Mrs. Claus. A silver star-shaped glass ornament. A clear glass angel with a gold halo. Standard glass baubles filled with white glitter that looks like a storm, small white feathers, sprigs of Christmas trees, ones that look like glitter galaxies in colors in varying shades of blues and purples. And they’re all made from glass and hand-painted. Or so the sign in the window says.
“It says they’re made by a local artist.” I tap my finger against the window. “I wonder how much they are. I would love to get some for my tree. Gosh, look at this one …”
I peer closer to the window. It’s a glass train. The detail on it is intricate. For some reason, I feel a little choked up, looking at it. It looks like so much time and effort went into this one little, tiny Christmas tree ornament. The artist must really love what they do and have so much patience to create something so lovely and delicate.
“This is beautiful,” I whisper. “I would love to get this for my tree.”
“They’re expensive. Especially that train. And, at this rate, you won’t get a tree. They’ll all be gone by the time I get you away from this window.”