Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 22762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22762 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
He doesn’t utter a word, but his eyes never leave me. I shift on my feet, and I can’t help but wonder if he hates the idea. I might have overstepped. He said he wanted a tea party, and I should be sticking to that. It's his barn, after all, and I shouldn’t tell him what to do. There I go again, getting ahead of myself and making things up in my mind.
“I mean, if you don’t—”
“Why can’t you do both?” He pushes off the stall door and moves toward me. “I think there is more than enough room.”
He’s right, there is. In the front there’s an open area where we could put tables and chairs.
“Really?” I would love to do that, but it might be too much. Excitement bubbles up inside me, and that hasn't happened in a very long time.
“Why not?” He shrugs like it’s not a big deal.
“’Cause it might cost a lot?”
“Don’t worry about any of that.” Booker reaches out and takes a piece of my hair before wrapping it around his finger. “You plan it. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Oh, yeah, okay.” Why is he playing with my hair? And why the heck do I find it appealing?
He rubs it between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s even softer than it looks.” He says it more to himself before he lets the piece of hair go.
I stare up at him, not sure how to reply to that. It wasn't a question. "Thanks?" I blurt out, and his lips twitch. When I can elicit a laugh or smile from him, it gives me a small thrill. Even if it wasn't what I was trying to do.
"No need to thank me." Booker throws down some more feed before I follow him out, and he latches the stall door again. "I was going to take you riding."
"We can't?" I’m not able to hide my disappointment. I wanted to try it but I’m also a little bit afraid. Not enough to chicken out, because I think Booker would keep me safe from hurting myself.
"Not today, but we will. I need to get you some better gear, and the wind is cutting tonight." I suck in a breath when he strokes his knuckle down my cheek and then jaw. "You're too delicate." His brows pull together, making me think that might be a bad thing. "It can be rough out here."
"I'm sure," I say as I look him over. Booker is rough on the surface, but I bet if I dug a little deeper, I’d find something different.
"But that's not going to stop me," he adds, shaking his head. "Come to the main house," Booker says before I can ask what he means.
Stop him from what? He always has these one-off lines I don’t know what to do with, and they leave me confused.
His hand goes to my back, guiding me out of the barn, and he presses a button. The doors close shut behind us, and I look at him with a questioning expression. “It keeps predators out and keeps heat in.”
“I’ve always loved this style of porch,” I say when we walk up the stairs to his house and to the front doors.
“How it wraps around?” Booker's hand presses firmer into my back, and a rush of heat courses through me.
“Yeah.” I nod. "You can have a few rocking chairs and even a swing." I always thought those were cute, and I can envision a married couple sitting outside at sunrise or sunset every day. "These rails would be beautiful with lights strung around them.” I run my fingers along the detailed wood. “Some flowers, too. They could be potted here and here.” I motion beside the double doors. “Out past the front of the porch there are plenty of flowers that can withstand the cold weather. I’ll look them up and make a list.”
Again, I stop talking when I realize I’ve been going on and on, and this is not about the tour. “Oh god.” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Not that this is ugly. It was only a few ideas, so it’s not so plain. Wait, I don’t mean plain. Just not—” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I think I’ll stop talking now.”
“Please don’t.” He smiles. "You become extremely animated when you’re excited." I drop my arms when I realize I’d been motioning everywhere like a dork. “You’re like a little snow fairy flitting around.”
Does he really see me that way, or is he only being nice? “Little?” I snort, and Booker takes a step closer. I back up a few inches, but I run into the railing that wraps around the porch.
“You’re little,” Booker repeats. He’s so dang close now, and there’s nowhere for me to go. Why does that give me a thrill of excitement?