Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
It works, mostly, squeaks a little but it rolls, and I grin, picturing myself pedaling into town, the wind in my face. But then I realize, I’m too wiped to ride for twenty-five minutes—my legs feel like lead and my eyes are so heavy that I could literally fall asleep on my feet.
I lean the bike against the sun-warmed wall, and decide to postpone my trip to tomorrow, bright and early, when I’ve got some fight back in me.
Taking the empty soup bowl with me, I shuffle tiredly inside and collapse on the couch. I’ll get up in a while and have a hot shower and brush my teeth, but just for a moment, I let the quiet wrap around me. No deliverables, no worries, and no obligations loom over me. This is exactly what I have been longing for. For so long.
A slow smile of happiness lights up my face.
Chapter
Thirteen
HUGH
Icome to my surroundings slowly. The world is a blur of muted light and soft edges. The air is thick with the scent of wood polish and lavender, a smell so familiar it’s almost invisible, but it nags at me, pulling me awake. I’m not supposed to be here. My body feels leaden, sunk deep into a mattress, but the sheets are cool and crisp against my bare chest. I blink and the ornate plasterwork in the ceiling above me comes into sharp focus.
A dull ache pulses behind my eyes—not a hangover, just a brain-deep headache. I run a hand over the stubble on my face. The light’s wrong—too sharp, slicing through a crack in the heavy curtains. A window must be open somewhere because the city’s hum has already seeped in, a distant drone of traffic I’d kill to silence.
Fuck. I didn’t make it back to Montrose. I’m in my London townhouse.
I feel like I’m wading through mud, but I don’t linger. Sharp and fast is always best. I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet smacking the cold hardwood, pajama bottoms hanging loose on my hips, chest bare as I shake off the fog. I run a hand through my hair, messy from sleep, and just then, a ring of the doorbell cuts through the haze. The sharp sound rattling in my skull.
I head out into the living room, knowing it could only be Athena, but wondering why the fuck she would be calling at this ungodly hour.
I swing the heavy wooden door inward, and find her standing on my doorstep, crisp and composed in the morning light. As usual, her dark hair is pulled back tight, not a strand out of place, her face is carefully made up. She’s holding breakfast and coffee in her hand, but this isn’t enough to wave away my annoyance at seeing her here.
Her eyes flick over me, quick and assessing, catching the rumpled pajama bottoms, my bare chest, the mess of my hair.
“What are you doing here?” I bark grumpily.
She gives me a professional smile, just a flicker. It is gone as fast as it came. “I wanted to catch you before you headed back to Montrose,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invite.
“I come bearing gifts, but unfortunately, tasks too. I’m sorry.”
Shutting the door behind me I grab the coffee and take a sip as I lead her towards the dining room. “Let’s hear it.”
She pulls a folder from under her arm. It is stuffed with papers, the corners and edges are so crisp, it’s like she’s ironed them. She spreads them across the table, fanning them out like a dealer at a card game.
“They need your signature,” she says, straightening and holding out a pen.
I don’t take it right away, just stare at the papers, wondering why I even came to the city in the first place. Yeah, I remember. The reluctant girl back at the cottage, whom I am trying to seduce in order to buy her property.
Athena coughs politely. She’s watching me now, one brow arched, her usual stiff upper lip, no-nonsense mask tightly in place. “Are you alright, Sir? I can bring them by the manor later today if you’re not up to doing them now. I just thought you might want to get them handled before you leave since they’re urgent.”
“Of course.” I shake my head and take the pen. She’s right. These are urgent. The American woman has scrambled my brain. I need to take a step back.
I drop into the chair closest to me and flip open the first contract. I give the first page a quick look and the headache recedes to an ignorable dull throb as I drop into the zone. Work mode activated. Thank God. Reviewing and appending my signature, I move through the contracts with mechanical precision, the pen’s weight familiar in my hand.
Athena stands by my side and watches, giving her input as needed and when asked. As I sign the last document, she breaks the stretch of silence to give me an update.