Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
But I’m persistent. The road is bad now, but surely, it’ll get better up ahead.
Up ahead…
Up ahead…
Up ahead.
The echoes of my stupidity hit home as a car comes barreling down the road behind me, taking a curve too fast. I yelp and swerve quickly out of its way. The bicycle wheels lose traction once again and I go down hard and fast. The car zooms past me just as I land, half on the road, half in the snowbank. Fortunately for me, I catch myself with my hand before my head can hit the ground. I wince as the impact ricochets up my wrist into my elbow. My legs are tangled with the bike, and I drop it slowly, assessing the damage. My jeans are torn at the knee, and one of the pedals scraped my ankle. My arm is a little sore, but I roll my elbow out and I can straighten it just fine. It’ll ache for a day or two, but I got extremely lucky. I could have completely wiped out. I could have been hit by that car!
Belatedly, I realize the asphalt tore into my hand enough that there’s blood, but I can’t look at it. I’ll assess the damage back at the cottage.
And so begins my slow walk home.
I’m too scared to get on the bike again. I can’t properly grip the handlebar with my left hand, and my wrist and elbow hurt. I’m sopping wet and shivering, fuming and annoyed by the time I wheel that stupid bicycle back to its home in the shed. I haven’t even really inspected it. With the way my morning is going, I probably broke the damn thing and will have to pay to get it fixed.
I whip open the back door to find Nate in the kitchen. I stand there dripping wet in the doorway as he turns to me with a cup of coffee in hand, the steam rising up in curling ribbons. He looks rested and restored. He’s just had a shower and he’s wearing dark jeans and a hunter green sweater. His strong jawline is clean-shaven again.
This man.
THIS MAN.
Suddenly, I hate him.
As he assesses me, he frowns. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
I stomp over to the sink, not caring that I’m leaving muddy footprints on the kitchen floor. I’ll clean them later. After trekking down the road a mile with the bike, I’m sweaty and hot. I yank off my beanie and unzip my jacket. Everything gets flung onto the floor. I’m really making a mess here.
Then I turn on the water and, without looking, shove my hand underneath it.
“Ah!”
Nate is beside me suddenly, taking my hand out of the water so he can look at it. Better him than me. I choose to stare at a point on the wall in front of me instead, holding on to my annoyance to keep all the other emotions at bay. I can barely feel Nate’s grasp on my hand, the way he cradles it in his palm like it’s a baby bird.
“I took the bike out,” I offer.
“That was stupid,” he says with an admonishing tone.
Anger tears through me and I try to yank my hand away, but he doesn’t let me.
“I wanted to go into town.”
“Why?”
“I…I needed—” To escape you. “Tampons,” I lie.
I expect him to balk at the word like most men do. OH MY GOD, they say, BLEGH!
Nate doesn’t even care. Worse, I don’t think he believes me. I can’t confirm because I still refuse to look at him.
“I could have driven you into town.”
I sniff. “I figured you were still sleeping.”
He tilts my hand so he can see it in the light. “It’s not bad. Let me get a bowl and you can soak it for a minute. I won’t be able to tell how deep a few of these cuts are until we get your hand cleaned off.” He steps back a little, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him inspecting the rest of my body, my torn and muddy jeans. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
I shake my head. The scrape on my ankle is nothing. I’ll worry about it later.
He tells me to sit, and when I argue that I’m dirty, he levels me with a glare.
Right.
Once I take a seat at the table, he brings over a bowl of warm soapy water, takes my hand, and stands beside me—too close—as he gently cleans off the dirt and debris. He smells so good from his shower. I probably smell like I feel: roadkill.
He lets the water do most of the heavy lifting, and after a few minutes, my hand looks much better. Without all the dirt, it’s clear there aren’t any deep cuts, nothing even requiring a bandage.
“I’d wash it off again in the shower,” he tells me, carrying the bowl to the sink to dump it out.