Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“Your brain is a very overactive place,” I say.
“Sometimes it’s too busy. And you’re right. I do sometimes think I can do everything, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”
“Bring it,” I say, wiggling my fingers.
Drawing a deep breath, he leans forward, palms pressed on his knees. “The pecan pumpkin apple pie was terrible.”
“You made it? For real?”
“I did. Baked it yesterday. I made two—one to taste and one for tomorrow—and they were disgusting. Tossed them both in the trash. I officially cannot bake pies,” he says, banging a fist on the arm of the chair.
“One bad pie attempt doesn’t mean you can’t bake them.”
River waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it was boring. Baking is so boring. I went out and bought a pie instead, and I bet it’s divine.” He takes a deep breath, his lips curving into a kind grin. “Does your head still hurt?”
“No. I feel better,” I say, and that’s all true.
“Good. I hate it when you get headaches,” he says.
“Really?” That makes me laugh for some reason.
“Why are you laughing?”
I shrug. “That’s sort of a random thing to hate.”
“No, it’s not,” he says, insistent. “I don’t like it when you don’t feel good, Owen. I want to fix it for you. I wish I could take them all away. Stomp on them and crush them out of existence.”
My heart hammers again.
Yup. I need to get back in the dating game for sure. Turn my attention away from River. Get all the way over him because every little thing makes my dumb heart jitter.
I pat the couch. “Naps cure pretty much anything, so I’m all good.”
“Naps should come with a label. Like the opposite of a warning. Instead, they should say . . . naps are always a good idea. Anyway, we’re here now and you feel better. I say we make the best of tonight. Want to pop open some champagne and play a board game? That’s what they do in cabins, right?”
They do other things in cabins. Lots of other things.
But at least we’re not arguing. We’re having fun again, like we vowed to do back in college. Stick together. No matter what. “Yes. But does that mean we’re sneaking champagne from the hostess gift for Declan’s mom?”
River brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
I wink at him. “Your secret is safe with me.”
He pops up, heads to the kitchen, and grabs the bubbly. “By the way, I texted Grant and Declan. Told them we needed to spend the night here. They were totally fine with it. Did you tell Nisha?”
“I texted with TJ, so she knows, but I’ll give her a quick call,” I say, then grab my phone from the floor, and hit her name.
One ring, and she picks up.
“You had me so worried,” she says, and I can practically see her in her home, shaking a finger, all statuesque and goddess-like.
“Sorry, Mom,” I tease.
“If it weren’t for TJ, I would have gone to Markleeville and tracked you down myself,” she says, sighing like she’s still annoyed, though I know she’s not.
“Yes, you are definitely a mom.”
“Not yet.”
“Wait. Are you and Hailey trying to?”
“Don’t change the subject, Owen Hayes. You had me so worried that for two hours I was pacing and convinced you were dead.”
“Well, there was snow, and I took a nap.”
“You and your nap fetish,” she says. “Anyway, if the snow doesn’t melt by tomorrow, I’m sending a helicopter for you. I really want you here.”
“You are a determined goddess. But question—can helicopters fly in this weather?”
“My imaginary one can. You’re in that little car, right?”
“Yes, River has a Honda.”
“My cousin has a new van for work. It’s all weather, or all-terrain, or jet-fueled, or something. Anyway, I can send him to pick you up tomorrow if the snow is still shitty. He loves helping. It’s his thing. Send me your address.”
“I’ll text it when I hang up. See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” she says, then takes a beat. “Also, have fun.”
“Goodbye, Nisha.”
I hang up and text her the address of the cabin.
Then, I join River in the kitchen as he swings open the cupboards and grabs two mugs.
Thank God.
If he got out champagne flutes, it’d be far too romantic for me.
Mugs are what friends drink champagne from.
He pops open the bottle, pours some for me in a For Fox Sake mug, and some for himself in one with the words Gopher It under a drawing of that animal.
He lifts his mug to toast.
I step closer, clink the ceramic to his.
River clears his throat. “To our first fight ending,” he says.
“I’ll drink to that.” And I do, taking a big, thirsty sip, then sigh happily. “I fucking love champagne.”
“Of course you do.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Because you have good taste, Owen, and champagne is delish. So of course you like it,” he says, then grabs a bag of popcorn. “Let’s snack and drink and play . . .” He stops, screws up his brow. “Monopoly?”