Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109368 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 547(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Agreed.” Quinn nodded.
Cammie glared at her brother and then turned to me. “What about a compromise? Two ovens on the wall and then a range oven center here.” She gestured to the middle of the back wall. “It will give you your hob top, two more ovens, and a proving drawer if you want to make your own bread.”
“Do you make your own bread?” Quinn asked.
I grinned cockily. “I do, actually.”
“You know, I never even thought to ask if you can cook and you’re opening a B and B.” He chuckled.
I arched an eyebrow. “I like to bake and I’m all right in the kitchen. My best friend is a chef and she’s given me some pointers over the years.” Speaking of London reminded me that my best friend hadn’t replied to the text I sent a week ago. I’d been so caught up in island life. I made a mental note to call her later. “But I will be hiring a chef to do all the breakfasts.”
“So shouldn’t the chef be here?” Arthur asked from behind us.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, I haven’t hired one yet.”
“You do realize it might be hard to get a chef,” Quinn told me. “Not everyone wants to live on an island.”
I shrugged. “People are always looking for work, even if it’s just seasonal. And like I said, I can cook, if I need to.”
“So … range or fitted?” Quinn pushed, sounding a bit impatient. Most likely because we’d been in what would become the kitchen for an hour already. “Gas or electric? I need to know if we need to run a new gas line in here.”
“I think a chef would say gas,” Cammie opined.
I could hear London disagreeing vehemently in my head. “Actually, my friend prefers induction. They have induction stovetops in the kitchen she works in, and she says they cook faster, you can better control the heat, and they’re easier to clean. Not to mention better for your health.”
“I stand corrected.” Cammie chuckled. “I’m going to lose this one, aren’t I?”
“Actually. No. I like the idea of having the proving drawer. I think two fitted ovens on the wall and an induction top range cooker in the middle is a good compromise.” I glanced back at Arthur with a grin. “Did you get that?”
He chuckled. “I’ve got it.” He picked up the laptop and brought it over. “What do you think?”
I studied the digital image of the kitchen we’d designed together in the last hour and grinned. “This is perfect.” There was an island but no seats since the kitchen wouldn’t be used for guests. The island had the sink and was all extra countertop and storage. There was a microwave drawer on it, a wine cooler, and cupboards on the back for whatever we needed.
“That color is going to look amazing.”
We’d gone for a pale blue shaker-style cabinet. Cammie and I already selected the perfect tile for the kitchen wall and a Victorian wallpaper to really give the kitchen impact. Even if the guests wouldn’t be in this room, I wanted it to match the feel of the rest of the renovation.
One of Quinn’s men, a younger boy on his team, walked into the room, eyes to me. “Sorry to interrupt, but we found this package at the front door. It’s not addressed to anyone.”
“Oh. I’ll take it, thanks.” I took the package and wrinkled my nose because there was a rank smell emanating from it. It was a brown envelope that bulged in the middle with something that felt roundish and hard. There was nothing on it.
No stamp or address. No name.
Weird.
“What is it?” Cammie asked.
“I have no idea,” I murmured as I tore the top open and peered inside. “There’s no name—oh my God!” I dropped it instinctually, my pulse pounding in my ears.
My companions exploded with questions and Quinn marched over to pick up the parcel, his expression tight with concern.
“It’s a bird,” I told him quickly so he wouldn’t put his hand in it. “I think it’s a dead bird.”
His eyes rounded a little and he moved to upend it from the envelope but suddenly Ramsay was there, as if appearing out of nowhere. “Don’t touch it,” he commanded.
Lowering to his haunches beside Quinn, I noted Ramsay’s T-shirt was damp from sweat from whatever he’d been working on. He had pliers in his hand, and he clamped them on the opposite end of the envelope and shook out the contents.
Dismay, confusion, and dread filled me at the sight of the dead bird.
A dove.
“Is that real?” Cammie asked, keeping her distance.
“It smells real,” Quinn replied softly.
“It’s real.” Ramsay nudged the bird over with his pliers. “Someone broke the wee thing’s neck.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Why?”
He looked up at me. “This was addressed to you?”
Sudden realization dawned, but I shook my head, unable to speak around the fear clamoring through me.