Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 274(@250wpm)___ 228(@300wpm)
“Prosthetics,” I said to the doctor. “How does that work?”
The doctor’s eyes came to me. “She needs to heal, first and foremost. But the moment that we can get prosthetics on her, we will.”
Then he proceeded to tell us about the new technology in what they called a ‘Hero Arm.’
“It’s powered by electrical sensors fitted inside a prosthesis that can read muscle movements when the prosthesis is worn.” The doctor sat back. “I’m not going to lie. This is expensive, but it’s the best available on the market right now.”
I swallowed hard at the number.
But even if I had to work myself into the grave, I’d get her those arms.
So, for the next six months, I worked my ass off to pay for the way back to normal life for her.
In the meantime, she learned how to live life without.
That time that passed? I realized that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
Seeing her dedication. Her determination. Her stubbornness.
It was enough to make every last fear that I had when it came to marriage die out inside of me.
CHAPTER 25
Some days I’m a goddess. Some days I’m a hot mess. Other days, I’m wild and carefree. Most days, I’m a bit of all three.
-Gracelynn to Jeremiah
GRACELYNN
Six months to the day after the attack, I found myself in the living room of Jeremiah’s overcrowded cabin, reading a book on my Kindle.
I used my new bionic left hand to change the page and smiled.
I’d had the devices for two months, and I was finding that, more and more, I loved the freedom that it gave me.
Even more, I loved that I could get back to regular life.
Jeremiah didn’t quite worry about me as much. The ladies of the MC didn’t go out of their way to make sure that I had everything that I needed—even though they were a godsend the first few months after the accident—Dory most of all. And I was finally back to work doing what I loved again. This time without hands—even though I had special ones now—but there was no way I was putting those things into dough. I’d already found it hard enough to get them clean. I could only imagine if I’d actually baked with them.
“Gracie.”
I blinked, surprised to hear Jeremiah’s voice.
I turned and stared at him in the middle of the living room.
How long had he been there?
He grinned wickedly at me. “You want to tell me what you’re reading right now?”
I snorted. As if he would act out any of his fantasies.
It’d been a long half a year, that was for sure.
But, what made it worse was that Jeremiah hadn’t touched me in all of that time.
I missed him so much that I physically ached sometimes.
“I would,” I said sadly. “But then I’d get myself all worked up, and you wouldn’t do anything about it.”
He scrunched up his nose, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head.
“Let me show you what I found us,” he said, clearly way off topic from where he’d been with the previous conversation.
I set my Kindle down, then patted the couch beside me.
He came to take a seat.
Then he pulled his phone out of his vest pocket and clicked it open. “Look.”
Then he showed me photos.
Photo after photo after photo.
Of a house that he’d found and was planning to have moved. He showed me the permits, the routes that the house would take from there to here. What they would have to do to make sure it would ride here well.
He’d called a company that specialized in moving old houses.
He found a house that was built in 1804. A house that had significance to him because his great, great, great, great grandfather had built it and lived in it from when he was thirty all the way to the ripe old age of eighty-five.
“All the original floors are in it,” Jeremiah was saying. “Original archways. Original paint, even, in some rooms.” He hesitated. “The restoration place that I contacted, the one that helps transport the house with the movers to help with the integrity during the move, is slightly worried about the fireplace making it. He said that the fireplace, one of the main attractions, likely will become unstable, and recommends we redo it. But I feel like that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
I leaned my head to the side and allowed it to rest on his shoulder.
I wanted to reach up and run my fingers along the photo, right where the fireplace resided.
But I resisted the urge.
“That willow tree beside it,” Jeremiah said. “I built a fort in that when I was nine. When we visited for the summer. It used to have an old hoot owl that lived in it. I called it my hooter hut for the longest time. My grandfather, who later owned the house, used to giggle every time I called it that.”