In the Weeds (Lovelight, #2)

by B.K. Borison

Watching them together is like shoving a cupcake directly into my face.

“We could—if you wanted, we could pretend this is the first time we’re meeting.” “And you’re inviting me to your house on an isolated stretch of farmland? Okay, serial killer.”

I’m a stopping point. I’m barely a stopping point. One she never even wanted to have.

Remembering is a slippery slope into wanting, and I’ve built too much for myself to get distracted by a gorgeous man with tattoos and very large hands.

Standing there like that, fingers curled loose around the neck of a beer bottle, face angled down toward mine—a bit of dirt on his brow and on the back of his hand—he looks like every flicker of a warm thought I’ve had in the past six months.

Evelyn is like a spring storm. She appears without warning, makes everything around her bloom, and then leaves with the wind.

She’s a woman wrapped in temptation, topped with an eager, honest sincerity that makes my chest feel hollow.

I think we’re told that we should embrace the grind. The work. That everything will be worth it in the end. But sometimes we need rest more than we need another thing on our list. And that’s okay.

Maybe this is what happy is supposed to be. A person, a place. A single moment in time.