Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114011 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
That’s a conversation that will have to be continued another day.
Rocks crunch against the tires. I drive around sedan-size potholes and cringe as tree branches scrape the top of the truck. I pass a barn that seems to be holding on by sheer will. A basketball hoop hangs lopsided just above the doors.
I park next to Palmer’s burgundy compact car and cut the engine. The silence is deafening.
The truck door squeals as I open it. My shoes hit the soft earth with a thud. I look around and breathe.
I’ve heard people say they can feel oxygen fill their bodies. Fish says it every time he visits the mountains. The only time I’ve ever experienced anything like that is when I’m getting oxygen as a part of the recovery process after a game or training session—and now.
Leaves flutter above my head as I take in Palmer’s house. It’s a mossy-green, two-story home with reddish-hued wood trim. A light glows beside the deep-brown door, inviting me onto the porch.
A swing hangs off the rafters, moving gently in the breeze. I make my way past it and to the door, then knock twice.
My mouth goes dry as I stand on the welcome mat and wait for Palmer to answer. A thought, a brief one, races through my mind and asks me if I should be here.
Should I be? My heart pounds. I don’t know. But I’m not about to get back in the truck and leave.
Palmer catches me off guard when she opens the door. I turn toward her, shifting my gaze from a row of pine trees to the stunner in the doorway.
Holy shit.
She’s wearing a pair of camouflage pants that look soft to the touch. A cream shirt that has four tiny buttons at the top, three of them undone, skirts her curves. Her hair is half-up, half-down, and I immediately think of kissing her on the exposed piece of skin just behind her ear.
“Hey,” she says, leaning against the door. “Did you just realize where you were or what?”
“No.” I chuckle. “Sorry. My mind was wandering.”
“I mean, there’s no pressure if you’d like to leave.”
She pretends like she’s going to close the door in my face. Or maybe that’s what she is going to do. But I reach out and catch the corner with my hand and grin.
Her pupils widen as a small, soft grin spreads across her lips. “Okay, then. Come on in.”
“Thank you.”
I step inside her house, and a thought hits me instantaneously. This isn’t a house. It’s a home.
I’m not sure what I expected, if anything, when I showed up at Palmer’s. But this? This isn’t it.
The air is lightly perfumed with citrus, as if love and laughter take place here often. The walls are suffused with the aroma of home-cooked meals. It’s not really a scent but a warmth. I know because my mother’s house has the same vibe, and no matter what I do in my own house, I cannot duplicate it.
I’ve tried.
Books pepper the room in front of me. On all available surfaces sit spines with topics ranging from the wildlife of Ohio to the benefits of essential oils. Pictures are propped up on a small mantel above a fireplace that’s seen better days, and a painting of what might be a dog with the words LOVE, ETHAN hangs in the corner of an oversize mirror by the front door.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Palmer says as she shuts the door behind me.
“I love it.”
She blows me off. “It’s not the greatest thing ever, but it works.”
I consider telling her what I was thinking only a few seconds ago, but I don’t. I don’t want her to think I’m pandering to her.
“Do you mind if I look out the window?” I ask, motioning toward the large picture window directly across from me.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
She steps to the side and allows me to walk by her. I avoid my natural inclination to touch her. Instead, I march on by to the glass that promises a view of green.
“It’s not salt water,” she says, coming up beside me. “But I like it.”
“This is really spectacular.”
She laughs. “It’s a lawn and woods. It’s more common, less spectacular, but thanks.”
The backyard is bright and green, littered with a multitude of kids’ toys. A swing set sits next to a haphazard square filled with sand. Weeds poke through the beachy material, and I wonder how long it’s been since Ethan played in it.
A bike is propped up against a tree beside a bright-orange circle that I think is a sled.
A sled in the spring? I have so many questions.
“I keep thinking that one day I’ll get a hammock and stretch it between those two trees,” she says, pointing to a couple of large tulip poplars near the bike.
“Great idea. Have you not lived here long?”