Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
I hesitated for only a second before following my gut and reaching out to him. I pulled him into a tight hug like I’d done out in the driveway earlier. It was completely out of character for me. Not only was I not one to show emotions, but I was also very careful not to lead anyone on romantically. After the number of relationships I’d squandered because of family commitments, I’d made a habit of keeping that shit buttoned up tight.
But, god. I couldn’t help myself with Truman Sweet. I wanted to wrap him up in a fuzzy blanket and keep him safe. I also wanted to bend him over the kitchen island and pound his ass.
The whiplash of feelings for this practical stranger was unlike anything I’d experienced before.
Suddenly I realized the small body in my arms was struggling to get away. I lifted my hands up and stepped back, horrified to have advanced on him against his will. “Truman, shit,” I began.
He must have seen the look on my face because he immediately began apologizing. “No, sorry. That’s not… no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be nice, dammit! Don’t. I’ll start crying like a baby and never stop.”
I was surprised by his response but relieved at the same time. “Okay, asshole,” I said in a rough voice. “Then stop all this talking bullshit and get to work setting the table.”
His face lit up with a smile, and he saluted me. “Aye-aye, captain.” When he walked past me to get to the silverware drawer, he leaned over and brushed a kiss along the edge of my jaw. I was moving my head at the time, so it also brushed my ear and made me shiver.
Truman made a low humming sound in his throat as if acknowledging the sensitive spot. I closed my eyes and took a breath to regain my focus.
Cooking. I was cooking food.
After the chicken was finally marinating and the rice was measured and ready to cook, I retrieved the wine I’d brought from the fridge and asked if he’d like some.
“Yes, please,” he said before rooting around in a drawer for the corkscrew. Once we each had a glass, he led me out the back door to a stone patio.
I hadn’t seen this area before since it was hidden by the house from the front and by an overgrown cluster of shrubbery from the side of the sun porch Truman used as an office.
It was clean and tidy like the rest of Truman’s house, but I could see he’d spent extra care setting it up for his enjoyment. Pots of colorful spring flowers lined the flagstones on both sides of the patio, and a solid wood chaise lounge overflowed with comfortable throw pillows in various shapes and sizes. On the right side, near the sun porch shrubbery, was a round table with four chairs. A cluster of candle lanterns and small potted flowers sat primly in the middle of the table, and I spotted a modern copper birdbath in a nearby flower bed.
I loved seeing this part of him, but at the same time, it made me realize how little of his personality was inside the farmhouse. It looked like a memorial to the woman who’d lived there before him, and I wondered what it would take for him to start making it his own.
I knew better than to ask. It wasn’t any of my business. At least he would begin to make forward progress by cleaning out her things.
“This is really nice, Truman,” I said instead. “Do you spend a lot of time out here?”
He reached over idly to pinch off some dead blooms from a nearby plant. “When the weather is nice. I’ve always loved this view.”
We were on the low part of the valley slope which meant mountain peaks surrounded us on two sides. Most likely, every property owner in the area relished the view of the peaks.
Not Truman.
The view he loved seemed to be of town. From here, you could see the white church spire, the patch of green grass where the large statue of a mountain rescue dog took pride of place in front of the visitors’ center, the oval shape of the high school track-and-field facility, and the red roof of the little historic covered bridge over the stream that ran behind Main Street. It reminded me of the one in Vail, and I’d meant to ask Mikey if Aster Valley had copied it for tourism reasons.
“Can you see the shop from here?” I asked, squinting at the brick buildings in the general area of the Honeyed Lemon.
“Right now you can. It’s next to the building with the black roof in that strip of shops on the right.” He pointed to a cluster of buildings I instantly recognized. From here, I could see green plants on the roof of his building. Why wasn’t I surprised?