Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16571 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 83(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Because there’s something about this place that feels strange to me. Something that tells me that walking back to my old life isn’t just going to be a matter of calling for a cab and hopping back to my hotel outside of town and returning to my old life.
I have no idea what the hell would possess someone to live out here, in the middle of nowhere, in this cabin that looks as though it could have been plucked straight from some storybook about life on the prairie. Is it a weird commune? Some sort of historical reenactment? I’ve heard about stuff like that in the past, but I can’t imagine what would possess someone to want to engage with something like this long-term, unless they were trying to get away from something.
Or, unless there was no choice but to live this way...
It can’t be real. It can’t be, right?
I rise to my feet, leaning on the bedframe so my leg doesn’t give out beneath me, and investigate the rest of the room. If this is just some reenactment, it’s clear that he’s seriously committed, because there’s not a single sign of anything that would have been out of place in the 1800s or somewhere close to it. A couple of leather-bound books and a battered bible on an uneven bookshelf, the cup strewn on the floor below.
A large chest sits underneath the window, and I open it, reaching inside to rub the rough fabric of his clothes between my fingers – my touch release a wash of deep masculine aroma, like freshly-overturned earth and sweat all mixed up together. I draw my hand back at once. I’m being way too nosy for my own good...
Suddenly, the door opens, and I slam the lid of the trunk shut before he can catch me rooting through his shit. Unlikely he’d take it well, especially given that he’d heaved me out of the forest when I was hurt and brought me back here to tend to me. Sure, plenty of guys might have had a reason for doing that, but he’s kept his distance, nothing but a gentleman, at least so far.
He stands there in the doorway, his brow furrowed, the dark curls of his hair in dissaray like he’s just come in from the cold.
"Were you going through my clothes?”
"No, I just-"
"If you needed something warmer, you can just tell me," he replies, as he makes his way inside. I notice that he is holding what looks to be a crutch under one arm, and his dog trots at his heels, a wary eye on me, like he’s not convinced I should be here at all.
"No, I’m fine, I’m just..."
I cast my gaze around. How do I tell him that this place is a foreign country to me? That I have a life I need to get back to, even if my leg is aching and my mind is reeling? I haven’t got a clue how to put it into words, or if he’d even be willing to hear me if I did.
"Here," he extends his hand to me, offering me the staff under his arm. I frown at it for a moment.
"What’s that for..."?”
Somethin’ to put your weight on while your leg heals," he replies, nodding downward.
"You just had this sitting around...?”
"Made it while you were asleep."
I raise my eyebrows.
"You made this?”
I stare down at it for a moment, not entirely sure if I believe him. I’ve known some handy people in my time, but this? This is crazy. This is the kind of thing my dad would have knocked up in an afternoon and called it nothing – at least, before he and my mom were in that accident. My heart twists and I push the thought aside, tucking the wood beneath my arm and putting some pressure on it.
"That feels a lot better," I remark. "Thank you."
"Let’s get a look at the wound," he mutters, and he sinks to his knees before me and slides his hand to the back of my calf to steady it as he examines the mark on my leg.
His fingertips send a tingle of sensation up my spine, and I do my best to pay it no mind. From where I’m standing, I can see the way the muscles in his back flex with each motion, barely contained by the loose cotton of his shirt.
I fight the urge to reach down and run my fingers along his neck, just to feel the warmth of his skin there, and he shifts a little closer to look at the wound – I can feel his breath on my skin, and I avert my eyes swiftly, hoping that he doesn’t notice the flush to my cheeks.
What must he think of what I’m wearing? If he’s really deep into this historical reenactment stuff, I’m probably well and truly breaking the fantasy. Not like I have some medieval robe I can toss on, though. I feel a little self-concious, standing there in my tee and my shorts, like I am scandalously exposed, despite the fact that I am entirely reasonably dressed.