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)
But I don’t give in to the need.
Her eyes flutter shut for a moment as she tastes her food, a soft hum escaping her throat—barely audible, but it hits me like a jolt, stirring something deep, primal. The gnocchi follows, pillowy and flecked with herbs, and she savors it, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s rediscovering food itself. I’m caught, watching her lips, the delicate way her jaw moves, the faint flush creeping up her neck as the flavors unfold. She’s breathtaking, not just in beauty but in this unguarded moment, her hunger, honest and raw.
She pauses, fork resting against the plate, and glances up, catching my gaze. Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise, maybe embarrassment, and I realize I’ve been staring too long, too openly. My heart kicks, but I don’t look away, letting a small smile curve my lips, hoping it hides the heat climbing my chest.
“Is it good?” I ask smoothly.
“Yeah. It is,” she replies. She watches me. “What kind of music do you like?” she asks, her voice soft but curious.
I lean back. “I don’t listen to music much. I prefer to work in the quiet, or even better, in the pure silence of my soundproofed office. It helps me think better.”
“Still, you can pick one, right?” Her eyes hold mine, waiting.
I shrug, searching for an answer. “If I had to pick… it would be jazz, maybe.” I nod toward the saxophone’s low hum, its notes wandering, unstructured. “Everything in my life’s… controlled, planned. Jazz isn’t. It’s messy. It keeps me guessing where it’ll go, and maybe that… I don’t know; it amuses me. It relaxes me, too.”
Her lips quirk, amusement sparking in her eyes, and I feel a small victory, like I’ve cracked her shell.
“You really like to be in control, don’t you?” she says, her tone teasing.
A half-laugh escapes, my guard slipping. “Yeah,” I admit. “I have to. My family’s legacy is a heavy one. I’m the only heir. My father is gone, and it is only my mother and I now. Restoring a heritage site like Montrose to its former grandeur is no cheap or easy task. There is always something going wrong. No sooner is one thing fixed that another falls apart. If it’s not the west wing, it’s the north wing. And on and on it goes. It is my responsibility to keep things running, keep it going.”
Her face softens, curiosity replacing the tease. “Your mother? Tell me about her?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling faintly, picturing her. “The manor is not exactly her favorite place, but no doubt, you’ll probably see her in time.”
She nods, and we concentrate on our meal, and soon dessert is next.
She hesitates over the menu, her eyes lingering on a chocolate torte, its description—salted caramel, hazelnut praline. “This one sounds good, but I’m pretty sure it’s like a million calories,” she murmurs regretfully, her fingers tapping the page.
“We could share it,” I suggest, leaning closer, my voice soft, coaxing. “Few bites for you, and I’ll eat the rest.”
She stares at me with wide-eyed surprise, then her face suddenly lights up with pure delight as she squeals, a small, unguarded sound, her hand flying to her mouth.
I can’t hold myself back from laughing, and I am surprised at myself. It hits me then that I’ve never felt this with a woman, this lightness, this joy in her joy. It’s dangerous, how much I’m enjoying this, how much I want it to last.
The torte arrives, glossy and decadent, and we split it, her fork delicate, mine greedy, her giggles mixing with the jazz. I’m lost in it, in her, the night. I know it’s only a bubble, but I don’t want it to break. Ever.
Eventually, even coffee and cognacs are dispensed with, and it’s time to leave. I find myself immensely reluctant, but there’s no other choice. We get in the car, both quiet.
We both know something beautiful and temporary has ended.
Chapter
Thirty-Three
LAUREN
The tall white candles in Pepisco still dance and flicker in my mind as we step out into the street. It’s been raining while we were dining, and the night air is sharp with the smell of diesel and damp stone. Hugh’s hand is a ghost at my elbow.
His chauffeur awaits in a sleek black car idling at the curb, its windows dark, reflecting the street’s neon glow. He jumps out to open the door for me, and I slide onto the leather seat, the warmth inside swallowing me. It all feels too soft, too easy.
Hugh settles beside me, his presence filling the space, his cologne—cedar and something deeper—lingering in my nostrils.
The car pulls away, smooth and silent, and I’m lulled for a moment, the city blurring past: shopfronts aglow, couples laughing under awnings, the Thames glinting in the distance. A stray thought slips into my mind. If only he were really mine. But I shake myself awake, remembering who he is, what he could want. The night’s been too perfect—Raye’s voice, his laugh over my reaction to us sharing a torte, the way he looked at me. It’s dangerous, making me soft, making me forget Cecilia’s warning and Meredith’s venom.