Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I don’t even bother turning on the radio, my pounding heart the only thing vibrating in my ears.
And that heart of mine keeps pounding away as I drive, growing louder and more persistent as I close in on my destination.
A big white farmhouse comes into view, as well as the barn that I know still showcases the wall I painted. The wall that Summer begged him to keep forever.
Summer.
God, how I miss her.
The brakes squeak as I pull the Civic to a stop and shut off the engine. The house is dark, besides the porch light, and I sit there for I don’t know how long warring with myself on whether this is a good idea.
A light flicks on from the side of the house, illuminating the walkspace to the studio. And the tall, muscular frame of a man I can’t stop thinking about, can’t stop worrying about, can’t stop missing—can’t stop craving, needing, wanting—comes into view as he walks from the big house to his favorite place to paint.
He doesn’t notice the Civic in his driveway or me in the driver’s seat. And when he walks into the studio and shuts the door behind him, I hop out of the car and follow.
Not even a minute later, I find him inside, roughly tossing one of his finished paintings onto a stack of another three. He still hasn’t noticed my presence, but the bourbon he consumed tonight is probably still flowing through his veins.
When two more canvases are carelessly added to the pile, I find my voice.
“Bennett?”
He stops on a dime but pointedly doesn’t turn around to face me. “Go home, Norah.”
Go home. The words are the nails, and the stern intonation of his voice is the hammer, driving a piercing pain straight into my heart.
“What are you doing?”
“Go home,” he repeats and yanks an abstract painting he painted before Summer passed away off an easel. With a sickeningly rough toss, it gets added to the pile.
When he pulls out a box of matches and stands over the discarded canvases that sit in the center of the room, concern clutches my chest.
“Bennett,” I say, trying my own hand at stern.
He ignores me and pulls a match out of the box, his eyes solely focused on the paintings, and his intent is unmistakable. The concern in my chest blooms into fear.
I jump into action then, running over to him and swatting the box of matches out of his hands. They hit the floor with a slap just as Bennett’s gaze finally meets mine. His blue eyes are sad and red-rimmed, and dark circles mar the skin beneath them. It breaks my heart into a million tiny pieces.
“Why, Norah?” His voice is harsh as he grabs my arms, but his touch is tender. “Why?” he repeats.
His question has nothing to do with the paintings. All I can do is look up at him, locking his devastation-ridden gaze with mine.
“I miss her too, Ben,” I whisper. “I miss her too.” And I miss you. So, so much.
His breathing is ragged, and emotion shines within his eyes. And when one lone tear drips down his cheek, I reach up to wipe it off with my thumb.
He leans into my touch, his strong jaw nuzzling into my small hand.
“I don’t deserve you. I never did.” His words are so quiet, my frantic, overactive mind questions if they even exist.
He starts to pull away, starts to put distance between us, and real words or not, I can’t handle it.
The last thing I want right now is space from this man. In a short time, he’s become everything to me. And all I want more than anything on this earth is to be there for him. To be here with him.
I push my body against his, wrapping my arms around his neck and lifting myself up until I can wrap my legs around his waist. He is stone, still as a statue, but his chest moves up and down against mine in heaving waves.
I touch my forehead to his, trying to bring his eyes to mine again, but they stay fixated on my shirt.
“Bennett,” I say, urging him to look at me. My bottom lip quivers with the emotion that’s now clogging my throat. “Bennett.”
His blue eyes fight to avoid mine, but they lose the battle. Tear-stained blue to tear-stained brown, we stare at one another.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice one decibel over silent. I love you.
He crashes his lips into mine, his movements erratic and unsteady as he thrusts his tongue into my mouth. His fingers slide into my hair, and I tighten my grip around his shoulders and waist as I kiss him right back.
We’re a messy, desperate mix of mouths and breaths, and when the taste of salt reaches my tongue, I don’t know if it’s from my tears or his.