“What are you celebrating?” Hunter asked.
“She finished a book today,” Tyler said, pride in his voice.
Hunter’s expression didn’t change, other than a slight raise of one eyebrow. “Congratulations. What were you working on?”
“It’s the fourth book in one of my contemporary series,” I said, leaving it at that. He wouldn’t know what I was talking about if I told him which one.
“Red River?” Hunter asked. “Is this Christine and Tim’s story?”
“How do you know about Red River?” It was my latest contemporary series set in Alabama. Small town. Five brothers. My sweet spot.
Hunter shrugged those massive shoulders. “I think I mentioned I read one of your books. But actually, I may have read more. Over the winter. Kept the cold out.”
“How many?” Tyler asked.
Hunter cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath, “All of them.”
Tyler made a sound that might have been a cough. “There are sixty.”
“I’m aware,” Hunter said.
“You must like them if you read all sixty,” Tyler said, tapping the table with his fingertips as if he’d just been proven right about something.
Hunter tugged at the collar of his flannel shirt. “They actually kind of inspire me. I haven’t written any songs since I’ve been here. Reading your Mom’s books makes me think I want to again.”
I stared at him. “They do?”
“A good country song tells a story about love or family or loss in three to four minutes that tugs at your heart, makes you smile or tear up. Maybe make you feel hopeful about the world, despite it being a hard place. Your books do the same thing, only with a heck of a lot more detail.”
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly very warm. Good thing I hadn’t worn the cashmere sweater.
“What made you decide to read one of her books in the first place?” Tyler asked.
Hunter hesitated, glancing again at the bar. “Curiosity, I guess. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. You have a way of drawing a reader in and not letting go. There are moments that take my breath away they’re so exquisite. The endings always make me cry.”
“Yep, that’s the magic,” Tyler said. “No one gives happy tears like my mom.”
“The new one will be out next month,” I said, when I trusted my voice. “I’ll get you a copy.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “Now, I should get those drinks.”
He hustled away, looking a little embarrassed. It wasn’t often someone surprised me a good way. Every time I had any interaction with him, he showed me a new side to him. Hunter Sloan was an onion if there ever was one. The question though—was he willing to peel them all away to show a woman who he truly was beneath the surface? I kind of doubted it.
2
HUNTER
I’d hoped Seraphina would come in for dinner. I wished that every night, but mostly I was disappointed. Tonight, though? Seraphina Sinclair had come into the bar at seven-sixteen with her awesome teenage son. It wasn’t that I was waiting for her. Not exactly anyway. Truthfully, I’d found myself of late looking up every time the darn door opened. Not totally consciously. I mean, I wasn’t a stalker. But there was something about the woman that made my pulse quicken. She fascinated me. I wanted to know everything about her. Which, given my track record with women, was not a good sign.
She looked gorgeous in a green blouse, and her hair was down. Often, she wore it in a bun or ponytail. Yeah, I’d started noticing her hair styles. Also, not a good sign.
We’d locked eyes for a second, and I thought I’d caught a glimpse of interest, like maybe she was glad I was behind the bar. But now, pouring her glass of wine and grabbing a root beer for Tyler, I started this thing I do calledoverthinking.
I’d told her way too much just now. Admitting I’d read all of her books made me seem like a … a what? A fan? I mean, I was one. Now, I’d not meant to ask about the book, but curiosity gotthe better of me. This was kind of embarrassing, but I really was looking forward to Christine and Tim’s story.
I mean, who reads all sixty books by one author in six months? You’ve got to be slightly unhinged. Reading her work in my cottage with the door closed and the lights low, totally immersed in her fictional worlds was not a typical way to spend the winter. But maybe that’s what a man like me does when he can’t write music and doesn’t want to drink too much or think about the life I’d walked away from. Nothing weird about it. Right?
They inspire me.I haven’t written since I’ve been here. Reading your books makes me think I want to again.
