Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Inside, we rummage through the fridge, pulling out cold cuts, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and whatever condiments we can find. The cabin’s still quiet, the faint hum of the wind in the trees seeping through the windows.
Boone sets the bread on the counter. “So, I’m thinking a triple-decker.”
I roll my eyes. “You and your enormous appetite. Go for it. I’ll have a normal, two-slice sandwich, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, grinning. He glances at me, his gaze lingering on my damp hair and the beads of lake water still glistening on my arms. “You look… happy.”
I tilt my head, smiling despite myself. “I guess I am. You gave me a day of normalcy. Or as close to normal as we can get.”
He gives a shrug, carefully layering turkey and cheese onto his bread. “I just hate seeing you stressed out. You deserve a break from all the chaos.”
A warmth blossoms in my chest at his sincerity. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I needed it.”
After we finish assembling our sandwiches, we settle at the small table near the window. The sunlight filters through, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. We eat quietly at first, hunger taking precedence. I savor every bite, the crisp lettuce and tangy mustard reminding me of simpler days.
Halfway through our meal, Boone’s phone vibrates on the table, and my heart leaps into my throat. But when he checks it, he shakes his head. “Spam text,” he mutters, laying the phone face down again.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I’m dreading the next call,” I admit, picking at my crust. “Every ring feels like it could be more bad news.”
He reaches across the table, placing his hand over mine. “Maybe it’ll be good news next time.”
The gentle pressure of his palm is reassuring, and I turn my hand over to intertwine our fingers. “God, I hope so,” I whisper.
We finish eating, clean up the plates, and then Boone suggests we might do some reading or play cards to pass the afternoon. But I can’t resist throwing a smirk his way. “Last time we played cards, you destroyed me. How about we read for a bit first, Mr. Poker Face.”
He chuckles. “Fine by me.”
The rest of the day unfolds in a pleasant blur—reading in companionable silence on the porch, occasionally commenting on a line from our respective books, or pointing out a squirrel bounding through the underbrush. It’s almost laughable how peaceful it is, given the chaos swirling in the outside world. But I hold onto it like a lifeline, like if I can etch these moments into my memory, I’ll have something good to replay when the nightmares come creeping in.
When the sun begins to dip, painting the sky in lavender and gold, Boone stands and stretches, the muscles in his back shifting under his skin. “I’ll start dinner,” he offers. “Unless you have another grand pizza plan up your sleeve.”
I laugh softly, closing my book. “I think you can handle it tonight,” I say. “We have that leftover chicken and some veggies, right?”
“Right,” he confirms, leaning down to press a quick kiss to my forehead. “You rest, I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I watch him disappear into the cabin, a swirl of gratitude and affection in my chest. It’s strange to realize how close I’ve grown to him in such a short time. Stranger still to feel my heart flutter every time he calls me sweetheart or gives me that lazy half-smile.
Eventually, I stand and follow him inside, offering to chop vegetables while he sears the chicken. We chat about nothing in particular—favorite childhood TV shows, embarrassing high school moments (he had few; I had many), and a million other small details that people share when they’re learning each other’s corners.
It doesn’t escape me that, for a day at least, I haven’t been consumed by fear. I haven’t cried once about the shop or railed about Charles. Boone gave me space to simply be, to remember that I’m more than just a victim or a target. He’s seen me at my worst, yet still looks at me like I’m something precious he wants to protect.
As the sun sets, we eat our chicken and veggies by the dim light of the lantern and the soft glow from the fireplace. It’s delicious in a homey, simple way—nourishing in more ways than one.
After dinner, I help wash dishes, and then we collapse on the couch, too comfortable to move much. I catch Boone stifling a yawn. “Tired?” I tease, nudging his side.
“It’s been a busy day of victory laps in the lake,” he shoots back, smirking. “And piggyback rides.”
I roll my eyes, smiling at the memory. “A day well spent.”
He turns toward me, draping an arm along the back of the couch. “You feeling okay?” The question is soft, but loaded. He’s asking about more than my physical state.