Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 26164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
But he was an idiot who didn’t even have his neighbor’s phone number.
He drove carefully out of the driveway and down the road. Fuck. Visibility was shit. He strained his eyes, searching for any sign of her.
Please, let her be safe.
His gut churned. He couldn’t lose someone else he cared about again. He just couldn’t.
After about ten minutes, he saw something moving along the side of the road. For a moment, he thought it was an animal.
Because he couldn’t even comprehend that she might be walking. In the snow. Along the road.
He slowly came to a stop, only putting on his brakes lightly. Then he put the truck in park and jumped out, just as she collapsed onto her knees in the snow.
“Lucie!” he roared.
She looked up, appearing dazed.
“Fuck, Lucie.” Reaching her, he grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. Shit. He gathered her against him. “Lucie, what happened? Are you all right?”
“Atticus? Am I dreaming then? Oh no, am I dead? I died, didn’t I? That’s so sad,” she wailed.
“Hush, baby.”
“I’m dead, though. I should get to be as loud as I want.”
“Lucie, hush,” he told her more fiercely.
She sniffled. “Will you miss me? Will you at least miss my muffins?”
“Lucie, you’re not fucking dead.” He drew her back, glaring down at her.
“I’m not?”
Hell. What was he doing? He needed to get her home and warm. Who knew how long she’d been walking for.
“Come on, let’s get you in the truck.” He wrapped an arm around her and half-carried her to his truck. He lifted her into the passenger side.
“I’m really not dead? You’re really here?”
“I’m here.” He shut the door and quickly moved to his side. He had to get her home.
When he climbed in, she leaned over and hugged him tight. “You came for me!”
Crap. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? He fucking hated when she cried.
He patted her awkwardly on the back. “You’re all right. Hush. Sit back and fasten up your belt.”
“Even though you hate me, you came for me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yes, you do. You hate me. I broke the photo frame.”
“I don’t hate you for breaking the photo frame.” Jesus. He turned the heat up on full blast, then tried to extricate himself from her hold so he could grab the blanket from the back seat.
“Yes, you do. I broke the frame that held a picture of you and your wife on your wedding day. I hate me too.”
Fuck it.
He grabbed her hands and drew them away from him.
“What sort of gloves are these?” he barked, looking down at the thin material.
“Um, old ones?”
“And why isn’t your hat pulled down further? It’s not even covering your ears. You lose too much heat through your head.” He drew her hat down over her ears. And that’s when he saw the blood. “Why the hell are you bleeding?”
His yell made her wince. She swore they would have heard him yell back in town.
“I hit my head,” she told him in a small voice.
“How did that happen?” he asked calmly as he reached back and grabbed a blanket, then tugged it over her lap. She was finally starting to feel the warmth of the truck. Her teeth started chattering. That was a good sign, right?
“When the t-truck crashed.”
“And how did that happen?”
“Cause s-something ran out onto the road. I think. I dunno. It all h-happened quick and Queenie c-crashed into a tree.” She sniffed. “Queenie’s broken.”
He didn’t say the obvious. That Queenie was already broken. She loved that truck, rust and all.
“Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need medical attention?” he asked urgently. “How long were you walking?” He took her hand in his, feeling for her pulse.
“You’re s-so sweet. You must have been a g-great Daddy to your wife.” Then she froze as she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I, uh . . .”
He eyed her. “I wish I had been. Gemma was my wife and Little for ten years. We met at a BDSM club. I loved her with all my heart.”
She sniffled. “I know. I can tell. I’m sorry about the photo.”
“Jesus, I don’t care about the frame, Lucie.” He let out a breath. “Fasten your seatbelt.”
“But you were angry and you’ve been avoiding me. I get it, I do—”
“Lucie, you don’t get anything,” he interrupted, looking grumpy. “I haven’t been avoiding you because of that. I’ve been avoiding you because . . . because I fucking feel something for you. Something I haven’t felt for anyone but my wife.”
“Wh-what?” she asked.
He gripped the steering wheel tight. “Love. I love you, Lucie. Now, buckle your damn seatbelt.”
7
Lucie sat in front of the roaring fire in Atticus’ house, wondering what the hell had just happened.
After he’d told her that he loved her, he’d retreated again. It probably didn’t help that she hadn’t known what to say to him.