Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Pushing all that old family feud crap aside, however, the only reason I disliked Reed Knowles was because of the shit he’d said to Harris. There was no excuse for that. But I am impressed with how he’d owned it and apologized.
Am I too easily impressed? Are my standards too low? I don’t think so. If he’d really been as terrible as I believed he was, then yes—my forgiveness came too easily. But on top of everything I discovered today is the undebatable fact that I did not know him. I essentially met Reed Knowles the night he stumbled into the cabin. What I’ve learned of him since…I like. A lot.
I also like his declaration that he’d never intentionally hurt me.
But should I trust it?
I think I might. Because I don’t know Reed well, but I do know my boss. Harris O’Neil doesn’t keep friends unless he respects them—and Reed is his closest friend. I’ve known that for a long time…yet I dismissed how their friendship suggested that Reed wasn’t as bad as I’d believed him to be, because it didn’t fit the narrative I knew was true.
Except it turns out I knew nothing at all.
By the time we reach the cabin, only one thought remains in my head. Not Lauryn, not my mother’s lies, not Reed and whether to (not just) kiss him. No, that one thought is: food.
Thanks to my multiple tumbles into the snow, my fleece-lined leggings are wet up the ass. I strip naked in the bathroom, hang my underwear and leggings to dry, and change into my coziest sweats. Reed must have also done a quick-change. When I come out, his pack is open and he’s wearing faded jeans with a red fisherman sweater. The sweater’s sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, which is utterly freaking ridiculous. How dare he? All he needs is a pocketknife and an apple and I’d be in a drooling puddle at his feet. Luckily for me, he’s got a bow saw and a tree bough instead, and I’m so hungry that it doesn’t matter how mouthwatering his hands and forearms are. My belly needs fed.
The charcuterie board takes a little longer than usual to assemble, probably because I’m cramming half of everything into my mouth before it reaches the platter. By the time I set it on the table, my belly beast has been tamed, and Reed has dismembered half the limb.
Overall the broken section of the bough is about the length of a tall Christmas tree, but the secondary branches extend out flat on two sides instead of all around. Only those smaller branches are bushy with needles, so Reed saws his way down the broken bough like he’s removing ribs from a spine. When done, he drags the denuded limb outside, and if my mouth wasn’t full of cheese, I’d have joked that he managed to whittle a bear-hunting spear after all.
He returns just as I’m pulling the mini sausage rolls from the oven. Like a dumbass, he snatches one up, then hisses and tosses the hot weenie from hand to hand waiting for it to cool.
So stupid. But his forearms are still exposed by his pushed-up sleeves, and his hands are so big—and the flex of tendon and muscle so mesmerizing—I can almost forgive the dumbassery.
Finally he pops the sausage roll into his mouth, then gestures to the pile of greenery. “Do you want help decorating?”
“I don’t need help,” I say, hoping he doesn’t have his own festive vision of how the cabin will look. “But do you want to help? If so, you can.”
“I won’t pretend it’s a favorite pastime, but I will help you. Happily.”
That response allows me to fully forgive the dumbassery. “Then no, I’d rather do it myself.”
“All right. But if you need me to hold something in place, I’m your man.” Reed’s a quick learner, apparently, because he goes for the not-piping-hot charcuterie board next. “Do you mind if I write while you decorate?”
“Not at all.” Those sleeves are still up, so watching him type while I labor away will be an extra Christmas Eve treat.
He heads for his pack. From it he pulls a pair of over-the-ear headphones, then casts an apologetic glance my direction. “White noise helps me focus.”
Ah. So he’s letting me know that his intention isn’t to be a rude asshole like I was yesterday with my earbuds. “All right.” A thought strikes me. “Are they noise cancelling? Do you care if I play Christmas music?”
“Go to. If you need anything, just wave in my face.”
I practically skip over to grab my bluetooth speaker and phone. By the time I’ve got it set up, Reed has loaded a plate and is settled down at the table in front of…something that’s not a laptop. Not a typewriter, either. I don’t know what it is. It almost looks like a wide, giant calculator—but instead of a number pad, it’s got a full-sized keyboard.