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)
I wave my hand in front of his face. Eyebrows raised, he pulls the headphones down.
I point. “What in the holy name of Radio Shack is that?”
Reed grins. “This is my baby,” he says, and actually caresses the dark green casing. “It’s an AlphaSmart Neo.”
“It looks as old as I am.”
“Not quite. Though maybe close. They stopped making them more than a decade ago. I bought this one online the first time I came out here to the cabin, and I’ve picked up a few more since then, in case it dies. This one has lasted me about eight years so far, though.”
“But…why not a laptop? Or a tablet?”
“Because this gets seven hundred hours of run time on three AA batteries.”
“Hours? Seven hundred hours?”
He nods. “And it’ll hold about two hundred pages—around half of one of my books.”
Oh. “So out here in the middle of nowhere and with no electricity…”
“I can spend a few weeks. I do have a laptop with me so I can clear out the Neo’s memory and back up my work, but I save that battery just for the transfer.”
I shake my head, cringing inside at the thought of trusting some ancient machine that was discontinued years ago not to erase half a book. But it’s apparently worked for him this long. Although… “Is your head healed enough now to read on that tiny display?”
“I only had to change the settings a bit.” Turning the device toward me, he shows me the little LCD screen…and the enormous font.
Oh shit.
Suddenly he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You almost laughed.”
“But I didn’t.” I snag a jalapeño popper so that I’ll have something in my mouth to stifle my giggles if I think about that font size again. Breezily I add, “You may carry on now. Thank you for indulging my curiosity.”
“My pleasure,” Reed says, smiling as he puts his headphones on again.
I get started on the decorations, humming along with the carols—sometimes singing quietly since he can’t hear me—and nearly high on the fresh scent of pine. Most of the branches end up on the fireplace mantel, but I hang others above the shutters and door—then save one for the bathroom, because Hot Biscuit Slim seems to be over his digestion issues, but that little space can use the extra pine odor protection.
All of the greenery gets draped in cranberry and popcorn garlands. By the end, the cabin is ridiculously festive and cheery, and I absolutely love it. I settle into my armchair to bask.
Then I remember Reed’s forearms.
He’s very, very focused on that little screen. Now and again he’ll grab a bite from his plate without looking away, rub his fingers on a napkin, and get back to typing. I don’t know what he’s working on, exactly, but his expression makes fascinating changes as he goes—as if he’s subconsciously mirroring whatever his characters are thinking or feeling as he writes them down. And his posture isn’t tense, yet he sits forward in the chair, and instead of letting his feet rest flat on the floor, his lower legs are balanced on the balls of his feet, as if he’s on the verge of standing. Overall there’s just an intensity to Reed’s whole being as he works that I find incredibly appealing. Before too long, my fingers itch to dig out my sketchpad and capture him in long, strong strokes.
Or…I can paint. He promised not to say anything to hurt me. I either trust that or I don’t.
I do. Mostly.
I set up my easel behind the armchairs—which is also the small open space at the end of the bed—where he’d have to deliberately come looking to see what I’m working on. No accidental peeks from this angle. Not that he’s noticed what I’m doing. The man truly does focus. But when I haul a canvas out of my large tote, that gets his attention.
His headphones come down around his neck. I say nothing.
Reed watches me lay out my brushes on top of the dresser—which turns out to be a very convenient workspace—and as I squirt paint onto my palette. Finally he says, “You know I want to look. But I’ll wait for an invitation.”
That was the kindest, sweetest thing he could have said. But I only reply, “You’ll be waiting a while.”
He grins. And doesn’t return to his work. He just stares at me.
“What?” I ask warily.
“You smiled.”
“No, I didn’t.” Oh god, maybe I did. His reply truly made me happy. “Did I?’
“You did.”
Shit. But I shrug. “It’s another Christmas miracle, I guess.” And at least I didn’t laugh.
“Another?”
Reed saying ‘thank you’ was the other miracle. That seems too petty to tell him now. “You making it here alive seems like one.”
His grin widens. “You wouldn’t have called that a miracle a few days ago. More like a curse.”