Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Not that I’m eavesdropping.
Or maybe I’m eavesdropping a little.
“Yeah, she’s still here,” he says, his voice dropping to a rumble that makes my stomach twist. “It’s not exactly what I expected.”
I freeze, the pan clattering onto the counter. My heart thuds in my chest, painfully loud.
“She’s… different,” he continues. “I don’t know, man. I didn’t expect to sign up for this kind of complication.”
Complication. The word hits like a slap. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat burning. My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady myself.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just… I didn’t think it’d be like this,” he mutters, his voice tight.
I can’t listen anymore. My chest aches, each beat of my heart twisting the knife. I don’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead, I turn on my heel, storming up the stairs to the loft.
The room feels suddenly small, suffocating. My suitcase sits in the corner, still partially unpacked, but the sight of it only makes me feel more out of place. Fox’s gruff voice echoes in my mind, his words ricocheting off my skull. Complication.
I thought we were starting to understand each other. That maybe I’d found something here—something real. But it turns out I’m just another inconvenience in his life, another thing he didn’t plan for.
My fingers fumble with the zipper of my suitcase, tears stinging my eyes. I refuse to cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction. But each item I shove into the carry-on feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the sinking feeling in my chest.
The scent of Fox lingers on the flannel draped over my shoulders—earthy, warm, and maddeningly familiar. It clings to me like a bittersweet memory, one I know I’ll carry long after I’ve left Devil’s Peak behind.
Fox is gone, off to some emergency mechanic job, leaving the air between us thick with unspoken words after I overheard his phone call. And maybe that’s for the best. If he were here now, I’d still be leaving, but his sharp, all-consuming presence would make it that much harder to walk away.
The walk down main street feels both too short and too long. By the time I reach The Devil’s Brew, my chest feels hollow, like I’ve already left a part of myself behind.
Inside, the brewery hums with late-afternoon energy. The rich scent of ale and the low murmur of conversation fills the air. A few regulars lift their beers in greeting, and I offer a tight smile before making my way to the bar. Behind it, a stout, middle-aged man wipes a glass clean with the ease of someone who’s seen it all.
“Amelia, right?” he says, sliding the glass onto a shelf. “You’re the one staying with Fox.”
My stomach twists. “Not anymore,” I say lightly. “I need a room for the night.”
He raises a brow but doesn’t press. “Got one open upstairs. Top of the stairs, second door on the left.”
“Thanks.” I hand him a wad of cash, enough for the room and a few drinks, before heading up the creaky staircase with my bag and Buttercup’s carrier slung over one shoulder.
The room is small but clean, the kind of place meant for passing through, not lingering. I drop the bag onto the bed, then sink into the lone chair by the window. The view outside is picturesque—Devil’s Peak rising in the distance, the Phantom River cutting through the valley like a glimmering ribbon.
It should be beautiful, comforting even. Instead, it feels like a cruel joke. This place was supposed to be a fresh start, an adventure. Instead, it’s turned into a lesson in heartbreak.
I let out a humorless laugh, the sound hollow in the quiet room. “Well, at least I’ve got material for the blog,” I mutter.
The thought sends a fresh wave of sadness crashing over me. Fox’s gruff voice echoes in my head, the word complication cutting like a blade.
I was so foolish to think we had something real.
Pulling my phone from my bag, I scroll through the numbers until I find the local taxi service. My thumb hovers over the call button as hesitation grips me. Just do it, I tell myself. Staying here another day, hoping for some kind of resolution, is a fool’s errand.
I press the button. A moment later, a chipper voice answers. “Devil’s Peak Taxi Service, how can I help?”
“Hi, I’d like to schedule a ride to the airport tomorrow morning,” I say, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
“Sure thing. What time are you thinking?”
“Seven a.m.”
“Got it. We’ll be there. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you.”
I hang up, setting the phone on the small table beside me. The decision feels final, a nail in the coffin of whatever fragile thing Fox and I might have been building.
The hours pass slowly. I try to write for my blog, crafting witty lines about the mail-order bride trend and the quirky charms of small-town, mountain life. But every time I start to type, my mind drifts to Fox. His scowl. His rough hands. The way his voice softens when he calls me sunshine, even if it’s meant as a jab.