Total pages in book: 16
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 15212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 76(@200wpm)___ 61(@250wpm)___ 51(@300wpm)
“I didn’t dismiss you, Evie. When I heard the baby crying, I assumed you were married.” She’s not. She’s not married. What the hell am I going to do about that? “I’d just got finished telling you . . . well, what I said. And I walked away because that’s the right thing to do when someone is attached.”
She loses her head of steam while absorbing that. “Oh.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She raises one back.
I put mine down.
Hell. This woman has me tied up in all kinds of fucking knots this morning. The first time I saw her, I decided she was out of my league. The second time, I confirmed it: Yup. Way out. I haven’t changed my mind, either. She’s young and sexy and good God, she’s full of fire and spirit. Talent. She loves that baby, too. I can see it in the way she cradles his head like she’s trying to protect him from the world. She’s nurturing on top of everything else.
A man could fall in love and stay there with this one. Stay there forever.
Something about her on my doorstep feels right. Like she was meant to show up sooner or later. What if there is a chance she could feel the same? Sure, I’m a farmer constantly covered in dirt; I have zero romance or wooing skills to speak of; and I’m a lumbering, assumption-making giant to boot. But maybe it’s true what they say and there is someone for everybody.
I don’t know. But I’ll regret it for a long time if I don’t try.
“If you come in, I’ll try on the jeans.” I replay that back and quickly clarify, my neck going hot. “I’ll try them on in another room, that is.”
It’s kind of comical the way she leans to one side to peer into my home, as if searching for torture devices, and I wonder what she thinks of my eight-foot undecorated Christmas tree that I propped up in the corner of the living room. I cut it down and brought it home myself, just for the smell of fresh pine, but I wouldn’t know where the hell to start buying shiny things to hang on it.
“Entering a stranger’s home is frowned upon where I come from, but it would be nice to sit down for a minute,” she says. “I realized about halfway here that these boots are more style than substance.”
My pulse stutters. “You got a blister?”
She nods, though it’s grudging—and I’m already mentally riffling through my first aid kit. I don’t bother bandaging my own cuts and scrapes, so I have no idea what’s in there. Cobwebs, probably. “If you’re not comfortable coming in, I’ll bring a chair outside.”
A little more softening on her end.
Damn. Maybe I’m not so useless with women after all?
Or maybe it’s just this one I’ve got a knack for. I hope so.
“No,” she says slowly. “I’ll come in.”
I swallow my relief and step aside, trying not to stare at the sight of a beautiful redhead entering my house. Ordering myself to pay attention, I scrape a chair out from beneath the table. I only have two, and they’re massive. I had to make them myself out in the barn, on account of my size. She doesn’t comment on the extra-large dimensions, but she does seem slightly amused that her feet don’t touch the floor.
The baby is starting to squirm in the sling around her chest. She rocks subtly side to side, cooing to him while I locate the first aid kit in one of the kitchen cabinets. During one of my many glances at her over my shoulder, I notice her wince and straighten her spine.
“Carrying the baby all this way must have been hell on your back.” Finally, I locate the first aid kit, then set it on the counter so I can check the contents. “Do you want to lie him down on my bed?”
A small hesitation. “Maybe just for a minute or two.”
I indicate the back hallway with a nod. “It’s just through there.”
She mutters something about having lost her survival skills, but she does toe off the red boots, stand up, and carry the child to the rear of the house. As soon as she gives me her back, I see the twin red splotches of blood seeping through her socks. And I reckon that tells me a lot about this woman: she’ll bleed to make a point.
She returns a moment later, looking like her load has been lightened, and sits down once again, her gaze heating my back while I gather the supplies I need. What does she think when she looks at me? Is it possible she admires my size? Or does she simply want to gawk, like everyone else?
“You said you don’t enter strangers’ homes where you come from. Where’s that?”