Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I still went ahead and built a home—a fucking brilliant one if you ask me—but it’s always been tainted by the ghost of her. Of what could have been, what should have been.
It took nearly four years to build, but the two-story modern farmhouse home is everything I dreamed it could be. I live on the outskirts of town with enough property to do whatever the hell I want. High ceilings, open living space, a roaring fireplace with a wraparound porch so I can take in the expansive view from every corner of my home. But no matter how beautiful or elegant it is, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s the loneliest house in Blushing.
After getting myself fed and showered after a long day, I find myself sitting out on my deck, my gaze locked on the snow-covered hills in the distance, the moonlight barely casting enough of a glow to see. During the day, I’d be able to see the lake that runs along the border of my property. It’s frozen solid by now, and if I were the kind to care about the usual Christmas traditions, I’d have figured out how to smooth it out and break out my old hockey skates from high school.
My knee bounces, and it’s impossible to keep still.
Ever since Ox muttered those two words, I’ve been a mess. She’s back.
Blair Wilder is back, and I don’t know how to feel about it. I don't even know how to keep myself from thinking about it. She’s been back all of two seconds, and I’m already a wreck.
I need to know how long she intends to be here. So I can put this raging ache to rest. The sooner I can start pretending that she isn’t just down the road, the sooner life can get back to normal.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day I’ll get my answers. I’ll man up, head over there, and demand to know what the fuck she’s doing back in my town, and after that . . . I haven’t got a clue. Probably search for solace at the bottom of a bottle of Jack.
Fucking hell. Oxley was right. I’m hung up on Blair Wilder. So fucking hung up that I throw myself out of my deck chair and storm in through the back door of my home, and before I even know what I’m doing, I’m flying out the front door and crashing into the driver’s side of my red pickup.
The engine roars to life, and within the space of only a few minutes, I’m already sailing through the middle of town. I detour, taking the long way around to avoid going past Oxley’s place because, without a doubt, he’ll know exactly what I’m doing, and I’ll surely receive a call telling me to turn my ass right around.
Turning down the familiar street, I roll to a stop in front of the neighbor’s home. I don’t exactly get the best view from here, but it’s enough to get my first glimpse of the woman who tore me to shreds.
She stands in the living room with long brunette hair cascading down her back, piling small logs into the old fireplace. She looks different than when I saw her last. She was so full of life six years ago, so ready to claim everything she’s always wanted, but the woman I see through the window is dejected. Clouded by grief. Her shoulders sag forward, almost slouching, and while it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her, I could almost swear that she’s lost weight.
If only she would turn around and gaze out the window. I need to see those bright blue eyes, need to get a good read on her just to know that she’s alright.
My heart races as my feelings get caught in my throat. She’s so fucking beautiful. Always has been. I’ve wondered what she’d look like now, wondered what she’d think of the man I’ve become . . . fuck. Do I even hear myself? I sound like a fucking love-sick puppy who can’t catch a hint.
She doesn’t want me, and I’m sure the last thing she wonders about is the lost cause she walked away from six years ago.
Blair reaches up over the fireplace, and I watch as she curls her hand around a lighter before crouching down and doing her best to light the wood, but it’s clear she hasn’t got a single fucking clue what she’s doing. Her pop was always in charge of putting the fire on, a real man’s man who looked after his girls. He never made them lift a finger for fear they might hurt themselves.
Over in her cushy life in New York, I’m sure Blair’s little apartment doesn’t boast a fireplace, and I can only imagine that right now as she struggles with the cold, she’s desperate to get back home to her thermostat.