Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101902 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 510(@200wpm)___ 408(@250wpm)___ 340(@300wpm)
I glanced at Archie, expecting him to be hurt by what I’d said. Instead, he was fucking smiling.
“The fuck is that for?” I frowned.
“More confirmation.” He shrugged and kept smiling. “Whatever we call what we shared that night wasn’t one-sided. You felt it too. And when I showed up here tonight, you didn’t look at me strangely with vague memories of who I was. You remember very well. I matter to you.”
That ticked me off. “Mattered,” I bit out. “Past tense. Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not cocky. I’m sure. But if you want to deny it, that’s fine.”
That little son of a bitch. I sat forward and peered back at him. “If I’ve given you the impression that this is the beginning of something or that you can believe in those pipe dreams of yours, you’re delusional. You blew it with me, Archie.”
His face fell. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—that. I don’t believe in…” He looked away and fidgeted with his hands on his lap, and I couldn’t believe I still gave a shit. “For five years, I’ve wondered if maybe it was all in my head. Maybe you told me off and then moved on in a week. I don’t know. Like I said, I’ll take whatever I can get, but I’m not stupid. I know you and I won’t become something.”
So that was really what he wanted? He’d actually come here to try to…what, rebuild something with me? All while he didn’t believe it was possible.
“You’re still interested in me,” I stated.
He exhaled a laugh, and his eyes welled up a little. “Understatement of the year, but yeah. I told you—you changed my life.”
“How?” I grated out, too frustrated to sit still anymore. I got off the couch and blew out a harsh breath. I needed something to do. Without being in the mood for coffee, I grabbed the pot and filled it with water. “How the hell did I make such an impact in a few hours?”
“How should I know?” he exclaimed. “You just did, Greer. From the moment I turned around at the shooting gallery and saw you, my focus was glued to you. And it wasn’t even your looks.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean—” He huffed and shot me an exasperated look. “I mean I’m not that superficial. My world doesn’t get turned upside down just because you happen to be criminally handsome. It was your easy manners. The way you spoke, the air around you, the silent self-assuredness, your dirty little smirk, the way your eyes crinkled when you thought something was funny, the words you chose. I don’t know.” He got heated and rose from the couch too, and I was…simply useless.
I set the coffeepot in the sink and merely stared at him.
And he wasn’t done. “Something about you called out to me in such a way that I had to listen to everything you said and keep all my attention trained on you. It’s fucking insane—I hear it myself—but I nearly freaked out when you started walking away. You’d taught a clueless bloke something, you’d finished your strawberry ice cream, and you’d collected your prizes. But to me, nothing was finished. Everything in me screamed for me to follow you, to strike up a conversation, to hear you speak again.”
I gnashed my teeth and swallowed against the dryness in my throat.
“I wrote about this in my letter,” he said hoarsely. “Do you remember when we sat down and had dinner together? You told me about your house, the dogs, the crops, your orchard…”
I nodded with a dip of my chin. Of course I remembered.
“That was a defining moment for me,” he confessed. “I started realizing that in all my years of uni studies and failing to pick a major, I was thinking all wrong. I wasn’t looking for a future profession. I was trying to study my way to the life I wanted to live. All these random classes—and you called them good skills. You changed my perspective. Woodworking is a good skill, if I have my own home and something needs fixing. Culinary science and horticulture are even better skills, if I’m tending to my own garden and putting food on the table for my family. The languages and social studies and education—well, I want to be a good teacher to my kids. I wanna be there every step of the way.”
Dear Lord, he needed to stop speaking now. Emotions surged forward, and I barely managed to keep them at bay. I’d have to be a chunk of rock in order not to get swept away in a dead fantasy. He’d killed that fantasy five years ago—or so I needed to remind myself.
“You brought me clarity, Sir. Thanks to you, I understand what it is I want.”
I looked at him without the ability to form a single damn word.