Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
I don’t bother correcting him that I was in the Navy or disappointing him with the knowledge that I didn’t shoot anyone. Instead, I help him into my truck and start a conversation with him about the latest superhero movie he saw at the theater in Sweetgrass River last weekend.
He chats a mile a minute, starved for attention and affection. I barely have to grunt out a response before he starts up again. By the time we’re at his place, he’s educated me on the complexities of all his favorite superheroes. I promise I’ll see him next week and wave as he disappears into his house.
With a tired sigh, I begin the drive to my cabin. It’s a forty-minute trip up the mountain. Forty minutes to think about Gwen, to wonder where she is and what she’s doing.
Did her book signing go well today? Did lots of her fans show up and gush about her latest book? Fuck, I hope so. I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s not thinking about me and wishing I were by her side the way I’m wishing that.
She’s single. I’ve been able to put that much together, but it doesn’t mean that she spends her nights dreaming of me the way I do of her. It doesn’t mean that she wakes up in a cold sweat under twisted sheets and has to touch herself to be able to relieve the insistent ache.
Until about three years ago, I’d never read a romance book in my life. I rarely read anything until I lost my arm. The days in the hospital were filled with endless appointments involving physical therapy and mental health counselors followed by circle time where a bunch of guys got together to bitch about their lost limbs.
But at least, the days were busy. Nights were the worst. In the sterile, dark room there was nothing to distract me from the phantom pain.
Then a local women’s organization gave out baskets filled with gifts for the injured veterans. The second-hand reading tablet was inside of mine. Guess whoever donated the reading tablet didn’t think to erase it.
I picked it up when I was trying to distract myself. I found the device pre-loaded and opened a book on it. That night was my first taste of a story from Gwen Hughes and well, I’ve been a fan ever since. I own all of hers in print. Both the paperbacks and the hardcover editions with discreet covers.
Hell, I have an entire shelf of my bookcase devoted to her works. I just wish it contained the signed copies. It sounds crazy, but I want to hold something she’s held. I want to sniff the books to see if they have the slightest hint of her perfume.
Now all of my wishes have caused me to start hallucinating. That’s the only explanation for the woman standing by the broken-down car with a hand on her curvy hip. Her long, brown hair flows down her back, and she scowls at the smoking sports car.
It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize that I just passed her. I’ve never been one to leave a motorist stranded on the side of the road. Definitely not a woman alone. But there’s an awareness in my gut, something is tingling.
“It’s not her,” I say out loud as I put the truck in reverse. I’m seeing things. I’m so damn desperate to know what it feels like to have my hands on her hips and stare into that captivating brown gaze that my imagination is in overdrive.
She’s the only reason I started narrating. Once I was hooked on Gwen’s books, I started watching her live streams. From there, I knew I had to find a way to get close to her.
When I saw she was looking for a male narrator for her books, I sent her an email. I insisted I was the man for the job. I didn’t tell her that I had no experience or that I spent hours watching video tutorials to learn how to do it after she decided to give me a chance. I just needed to be around her.
Now, I stop on the side of the road, and the woman turns. That scowl that was directed at her car is focused on me.
My heart skips a beat. It’s her.
Gwen Hughes is actually on my mountain, and she looks mad as hell too. She pushes her hair out of her face and marches up to my truck. With every step, her little blue jean skirt is swishing against those thick thighs that are a staple in all of my dirtiest fantasies. “Would you believe some asshole sold me this piece of junk?”
2
GWEN
“Out of all the ideas you’ve had, this has to be your craziest,” I tell myself as I turn off the interstate and onto the exit. I know from the GPS system in my car that Courage County is nearby.