Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“Are we going back to a hotel?” I asked.
“Airport,” he stated. “Got a flight into Nashville. Apollo’s still completing security on your farm, but it should be wrapped tomorrow. It’s safer to get you out of the city.”
A weight suddenly lifted off my shoulders as if someone had cut a cord inside me. “We’re going home? Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
I leaned my head back against the leather, a laugh bubbling up through the ache. The farm meant open space and dirt under my nails. It was fresh air, and a sky that didn’t feel like it was pressing down on me, forcing me to be anyone other than myself.
I’d been away for far too long. My childhood home came with its own set of challenges, but if ever there was a place for me to heal, that was where it would always be.
In the rearview mirror, I caught Devon’s reflection.
He too, was smiling.
And not the tight, polite version he wore like armor. This one was wide and unguarded. Masculine in a way that made my pulse trip over itself before I could stop it.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was a woman with two eyeballs and the man was gorgeous. Top it off with that smile, and he was some serious eye candy.
Some of the most spectacular specimens of beauty in the world surrounded me daily. I was allowed to appreciate the opposite sex. Appreciation didn’t equal action.
Good for Devon for hitting the genetic lottery. If a woman could get past his abrasive personality, she’d be a lucky lady one day. Assuming he didn’t already have somebody.
“Are you married?” I blurted out before immediately thinking better of it. I lifted my hand to stop his answer, not that he was going to give it to me. “Sorry. No gray area there. That falls under personal life.”
He hummed, his smile falling back to its signature neutrality.
With nothing left to see, I closed my eyes and allowed the sounds of the car to clear my mind. The forward motion rocked me like a lullaby, drawing me closer and closer toward the only place I didn’t have to hide.
Not even from myself.
I was heading home.
And for the first time since my heart had been severed, I finally felt hope for healing.
8
DEVON
The flight out of LA had been uneventful. Just a sleek private jet, a locked cockpit, and enough empty sky to pretend that the world couldn’t reach her. Most of the way, Lofton had slept curled into the leather seat with a blanket pulled up to her chin. Her lashes rested peacefully against her cheeks as if she’d finally run out of adrenaline to burn.
Nashville came and went in a blur of asphalt and road signs. The drive west was an easy two-hour shot down the interstate. No traffic. No detours. Just mile after mile of open road.
After we’d reached Dollton, I’d clocked exactly three stoplights. No Walmart. No Starbucks. Not a single corporate logo in sight. It was all mom-and-pop shops with hand-painted signs. Miller’s Market. Keller’s Feed & Seed. A diner called Doodle Bug Café, complete with an old rusted-out VW beetle serving as their sign.
After big cities like Chicago and LA, it felt like I’d crossed into another country rather than just state lines.
The tires crunched over gravel as the entrance to Lofton Beck’s childhood home came into view. The gate was massive. And not decorative-rustic-farmhouse massive.
Fortress massive.
Tall black iron bars backed by metal mesh, thick enough that I could have driven the Escalade into it at full speed and still lost the fight.
Everything screamed top of the line. Cameras angled down at us from discreet corners. Motion sensors hidden in the hedges. The landscaping was so meticulously maintained it looked staged from a brochure. Bright pansies and tulips bordered the drive, perfectly spaced, their pink, yellow, and white faces turned toward the sun like they too were on payroll.
There was a guard station on the right side of the gate. With fresh wood framing still visible around the edges and a stack of construction materials leaning against the side, it appeared to be new and—like the gate—permanent.
The glass door opened, and an immediate smile split my mouth.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I muttered.
Chris Carroll stepped out of the booth, posture straight, shoulders broad under his navy blazer despite the warm afternoon. He was a brick wall of a man; his gray hair being the only real tell of his age. Though it did little to soften him.
“Devon Grant,” he called. “You look like hell.”
“Missed you too, old man.”
I extended my palm from the car window, and he met it for a firm shake.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
He chuckled. “Same thing as you. Leo dangled a paycheck in my face and told me the world was on fire. Retirement didn’t stand a chance.”