Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Never heard of it.”
“Really?” I frowned. “Shoot, I hope I was going the right way.”
“Where is it?”
“The Leelenau Peninsula.”
He nodded. “You’re good. That’s about three hours north of here.”
“Whew,” I said, peeling off my gloves and fanning my face.
After a minute he asked, “You’re moving to a farm?”
I laughed. “Does that surprise you?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Well, it’s not just a farm. It’s also an inn with a winery and a restaurant. It’s run by the Sawyer family, and I stayed there once several years ago for a wedding and fell in love with it. It’s beautiful. And it gave me the most incredible feeling. If a place could love you back, or like, grow arms and hug you, that’s what this place would do. So that’s why I’m going there.”
“To feel the hug.”
I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or not. “Yes. If I feel it again, I’ll know where I belong.”
“Sounds like you’ve got things all figured out.”
I didn’t, not even close, but I crossed my fingers and hoped he was right.
“Hey. Sorry that took so long.” Officer Mitchell and the dark-haired friend came jogging back over. “Moretti was sweet-talking the server.”
“What else is new?” Griffin muttered, rising to his feet.
“Listen, I shaved like five minutes off the usual time I spend getting someone’s number,” Moretti said. “You’re welcome.”
Griffin rolled his eyes. “I’m gonna go over to the garage and get the truck. Back in ten minutes.”
“Sounds good.” The cop sat down on the bench, and we watched Griffin jog across the street and get into a white pickup truck.
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Moretti said. “Griffin is the best mechanic there is. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
“I hope so,” I said. “Do you think he’ll be able to fix it tonight?”
“If anyone can do it, Griffin can.” Officer Mitchell sounded confident, and it made me feel a little better.
Those big hands had looked awfully capable.
“Ready to go?” Griffin asked me once they were finished getting my poor little MG hooked up to the tow. It took some serious effort, thanks to the awkward angle at which I’d, um, “parked.”
“Yes,” I said. “Should I ride in the truck with you?”
He looked amused. “Unless you want to walk. But I won’t be around to catch you if you fall.”
“Very funny. I’ll take the ride, thank you.”
He opened the passenger door, and I noticed the blanket over the front seat. Had he done that for me?
Touched, I hitched up the bottom of my dress and climbed in, although it took me a few hops on one foot, and I almost asked him for a boost. But once I was seated on the blanket, I gathered up all the tulle around me and nodded at him to shut the door. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.
The cab of the truck was dark and smelled like gasoline and leather, which was a strangely pleasant and masculine combination. On the drive to the garage, I snuck a peek at Griffin’s profile and thought again how handsome he was. Chiseled jaw, strong, straight nose, full lips. I wondered what color his hair was beneath his cap. I remembered the blue of his eyes, and my belly performed a little flip.
But he was probably a big jerk. Had I ever been attracted to a nice guy? That was another thing I planned to change in my new life—no more dating commitment-phobic playboys or lazy, entitled assholes. I wouldn’t be distracted by pretty lies or empty promises anymore, and I certainly wouldn’t care about a big bank account. I knew better than anyone how quickly money could disappear.
I wanted someone good. Someone real. Someone honest. Someone with a big heart and big dreams, and if he happened to have a big dick too, well, I wouldn’t complain.
But there would be time for all that later. My first order of business was to work on myself.
Just beyond the downtown area, Griffin slowed down and we passed in front of a tall brick building that looked at least a hundred years old. It was two-and-a-half stories high and had two huge, arched bay doors. The façade was illuminated by streetlamps, and a sign across the front read BELLAMY CREEK GARAGE. Above that, etched in the cement, I could barely make out lettering that said Ladder Co. 3.
“Was this a firehouse?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Griffin turned into the lot next to the building and expertly maneuvered the truck into position, while I admired the old firehouse’s Beaux-Arts architectural details.
“It’s a beautiful building.”
“Thanks. My grandfather bought it in the fifties. By then it had been vacant and crumbling for years. Nobody knew what to do with it, and it was about to be torn down.”
I gasped. “Thank goodness he saved it.”
“Everyone told him the idea was crazy, but he mortgaged himself into the ground and bought it anyway.”