Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80969 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
“Thank you … for apologizing,” I tell him because I know how hard that must have been for him to do.
I see the relief flicker in his eyes.
He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “So, can we, uh, go back to the way we were before?”
And, now, I feel bad for what I’m about to say.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” I shake my head.
His eyes search mine. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t trust you not to hurt my feelings again.”
“Oh. Right.”
Yeah. Oh.
He lifts his chin, a determined look on his face. “Well, trust is earned, right?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“So, let me earn it back. Your trust.”
What am I supposed to say to that?
“Give me one reason why I should.”
“Because you’re my best friend, Red,” he says softly, eyes sweeping the floor beneath our feet. “My only friend.”
And, fudge, I’m going to cry.
Tears prick the backs of my eyes. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep them at bay.
When I feel like I can speak without blubbering, I say, “Okay.”
Hopeful eyes lift to mine. “Okay?”
“Yes. But, if you hurt my feelings like that again, you’re out.”
“Got it.” He gives a sharp nod.
“But I’m not your only friend, River. You have Ellie and Macy.”
He gives me a funny look. “Ellie was my gran’s friend, and she’s a business acquaintance. And Macy’s not my friend.”
“No?”
“No.”
“But I just saw her leaving your place.”
Some light, unnamed emotion takes up residence in his eyes. “After I locked up last night, I brought home the stockroom key with me by accident. She came to pick it up on her way into the store.”
“Oh. So, she’s not your girlfriend?”
His brows draw together. “No, Red,” he says slowly, holding my eyes. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s not my anything.”
Well played, Macy. Well played.
She sure had me convinced.
I realize I’m still staring into his eyes, so I look away. “How come you were working at the store?”
“Ellie was unwell. I was helping out.”
“I hope nothing serious.”
“She had a fall, sprained her ankle. I was helping out until she was back on her feet.”
“Was?”
“She called last night, said she was getting back to work today. That’s when I realized I had the store key. She asked Macy to come collect it from me.”
I nod, and it’s my turn to shift on my feet. “I probably should confess something.”
“What?”
I don’t miss the note of wariness in his voice.
I look into his eyes again. “I know you made the Christmas train ornament.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Macy told me at the store yesterday. I was looking at your vase and those gorgeous glass balloons, and she said you were the artist. Why didn’t you tell me they were yours?”
“I don’t tell anyone.”
“Macy knows.”
He frowns. “She works at the store, and she knows better than to tell people.”
“Why keep it a secret? You’re incredibly talented, River.”
“Because I want to sell them, and people around here wouldn’t buy them if they knew I’d created them.”
It’s my turn to say, “Oh.” Because I know exactly what he’s not saying. They wouldn’t buy the art because of what his mom did all those years ago. “Well, they’re idiots. Your art is beautiful.”
He shrugs dismissively. I can tell he’s embarrassed by my compliment.
“Do you sell them elsewhere, aside from Thistleberry Farm?” I ask him.
“I sell to a few stores in the city—San Antonio,” he clarifies.
He turns his face to the side, staring at my car. I know this conversation is over. Well, about that subject anyway.
“You bought a car,” he says in a rough-sounding voice.
“I did.” I smile.
His eyes move to the trunk and the paint cans sitting inside. “You’re painting?”
“Yep. I’m decorating the baby’s room.”
He finally looks at me. “You want some help?”
I smile inside. “I’d love some help.”
He reaches in the trunk and grabs the rollers, trays, and cans of paint. “You okay with the rest?” he asks.
I look down at the pack of paintbrushes and floor sheets. “I think I can just about manage,” I say dryly.
He follows me to my front door. I unlock it and let us inside. I put my stuff down and crouch down to fuss over Buddy.
“Where’s the baby’s room?” he asks, lifting up the paint cans.
“Down the hall, door on the right,” I tell him, rising to my feet. “You want a coffee?” I ask, walking toward the kitchen before he disappears down the hall.
“Sure.”
I turn the kettle on and let Buddy out, watching him putter around the garden and do his business.
I call him inside when the kettle boils. I make River’s coffee and a decaf tea for myself and carry them through to the baby’s room.
I see River has also brought through the paintbrushes and sheets that I left in the living room. He’s already opened the pack of sheets and is laying the last one down.