Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Enter Caleb. On the surface, he's a strict and stoic marriage counselor, but his methods are somewhat...unconventional. In order to save her marriage to Waylon, Caleb proposes that Ashley spend three days—and nights—with him, so the therapist can study what makes her happy. Emotionally. Physically. At the end of their time together, Caleb will pass on his findings to Waylon, so he can be a better husband. Simple, right?
Wrong.
Caleb has absolutely no intention of returning Ashley to her husband—and he has three days to figure out how to save her family's farm from ruin and keep the woman he loves forever. But is there a method to his madness or is he just...mad?
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
Caleb
The woman staring at the jars of pickles stops me in my tracks.
Around me, the squeaks and muffled mutterings of the supermarket flatline and a loud ringing in my ears begins. I can no longer feel the red plastic basket in my hand.
It is an indisputable fact that she is beautiful, even with her blonde hair pulled back in a severe braid. Her shirt collar is tight, buttoned up and nearly reaching her delicate chin. She wears thick rimmed glasses. Loose pants. Everything about her attire is designed to draw the least amount of attention, yet I’m arrested in time, my steps faltering as if the air has grown sticky around me.
And she continues to stare at the pickles.
It occurs to me after a moment that she is not really seeing them. She’s dazed.
Numb.
There is an entire world turning behind her eyes. The pickles are just bystanders. Though, after approximately thirty seconds, she visibly shakes herself, selects one of the jars and returns it, something on the top shelf catching her eye, instead.
When she reaches for the item and her outstretched fingers don’t even come close, I begin to move in her direction, intending to help, though I would be a bald-faced liar if I didn’t acknowledge my body thrumming, my heart beating double time in my chest, some unknown part of me demanding to get closer to her.
I’m still ten yards away when she steps on the bottom shelf to boost herself, one elegant hand wrapping around a jar of tapenade—the sole of her sneakers yelping as she slips. The woman clutches the glass to her chest with one arm, her other one reaching uselessly for purchase, as there is nothing to grab but breakable items. It’s clear she’s going to stumble and possibly fall. But he doesn’t, because her back lands against my chest, instead, my left hand a steadying presence at her waist.
It's the only steady part of me as soon as I’ve touched her.
As soon as her scent invades my head.
Once, in an orange grove in California, I plucked an orange off a tree, peeled it and bit into it whole. That’s what she smells like. Sun heated, natural. Juicy.
I look down at the soft sweep of her neck and wonder what I’d need to do to sink my teeth into her. Unfortunately, I don’t get the chance to ponder the answer for long, because she turns pissed off green eyes on me and raises the glass jar, obviously prepared to break the vessel of tapenade over my fucking head.
“Get your hands off me or I’ll crack your skull open,” she says haltingly.
Fearfully.
“Easy,” I say quietly, making sure she’s steady, then backing up a pace, despite wanting more contact. More. My pulse is erratic, regardless of my calming tone, thanks to her hushed honey voice. The supple glow of her cheeks. The mixture of violence and trepidation in her incredible eyes. I’m…captured.
Who the hell is this woman?
“There’s nothing easy about me,” she says, flipping the glass jar over in her hand. “Would you like a demonstration?”
Yes.
I would, in fact, love her to show me anything about herself, because she presents such an enigma, and I’m not used to being confused. I’m a therapist who can diagnose people at forty paces. Disruptive behavior disorders. Depression. Disassociation. Anxiety.
This woman is not straightforward. She contains multitudes.
A moment ago, she appeared lost in a pickle-induced fog.
Now she would very much enjoy killing me in aisle five.
And one thing is for certain. She does not appreciate being touched by a stranger. Frankly, I’ve never met a woman who does. This is something I can confidently address.
“You were falling,” I point out. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It was a reflex.”
“Sort of like me clocking you with this heavy object?”
My lips twitch. “Sort of like that, yes.”
“Well.” She gives me a once-over that can only be coined downright disrespectful. “Aren’t you going to complain that I should be thanking you?” Slowly, she sets the tapenade back on the wrong shelf behind her, though she’s careful to keep one green eye trained on me, as if I might attack her in the middle of the supermarket. “Aren’t you going to try and make me feel crazy for threatening you over a harmless little touch?”
“No. I’m not.”
“It’s not harmless to me,” she says, somewhat choppily.
“I can see that.” That is an understatement. She’s…haunted. There’s trauma here and I’ve haplessly unearthed it with one touch. “I’m sorry.”
Slowly, her brow knits together, this gorgeous woman who is trying to disguise her beauty to no avail, her gaze attempting to collect information about me. “You actually seem sorry.”
“And that’s hard for you to believe?”
“Yes.”
If I had my clipboard in front of me, I would have filled three full pages of notes by now and there would be no end in sight. “Why?”