Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“Clichés are a thing for a reason.” Yes, I know.
“Exactly. Now, stop trying to resist him and let him love you. You could be a duchess or a nanny or a waitress. Whatever you are, it doesn’t matter, so long as you have love.”
43
Alexander
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen Holland, have you?” I hate to ask. Hate to open another can of worms or annoyance as I pass Van at the bar.
“Did you blink, and she disappeared?” He smirks over the top of his glass.
“What are you drinking?” I lean against the makeshift bar top and peer into his glass. “Vodka?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “Sometimes, it helps me think.”
“And sometimes, it helps you fall down whole flights of stairs,” I reply, thinking back to our student days. “Stay away from my sister, Van.” I brush a weary hand through my hair. “She’s got enough trouble coming her way.” Divorce. A custody battle. A mountain of debt, I shouldn’t wonder. But we’ll get through it together. It’s what we do.
“Yes. Trouble,” he repeats pensively. “But what are you going to do about your trouble, Aleksandr.
“Crush it.” I flick my shoulder, unconcerned. I thought that the dance might do it. A tender look. A kiss to the cheek. I thought that even my blush might’ve helped—completely spontaneous—as at the end of our dance Jessica had offered to take me into the garden to blow more than my mind.
I’d declined, of course. And I haven’t been able to find Holland since, despite doing a couple of laps of both inside and out.
I signal to the barman and order a single malt, beginning to absently drum my fingers against the wood.
“Your sister’s husband is no good.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“He’s embroiled her in much trouble.”
“Also, not news,” I mutter, thinking back to the loss of her trust fund, and God only knows what else. God, and our lawyers as of next week.
As my drink appears in front of me, I lift it to my lips.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Van says, standing and placing his glass down.
“Are you all right?” He’s in a weird mood. Then he often is these days.
“Yes, of course.” As he passes, his hand clasps my shoulder tight. “I have some thinking to do. And you, my friend, have something a little more physical to look forward to.” I stiffen at the implication in his words as he bends, bringing his mouth to my ear. “I saw Griffin lead Holland out into the gardens.”
No.
Just no.
Room after room blurs, people and faces grotesque caricatures as my mind swims from scenario to scenario.
Holland behind a sofa.
Over a picnic table.
Taunting me from behind closed doors.
Because she’s not in the fucking gardens, that’s for sure.
I will fucking kill him, I think as sweat sticks my shirt to my back. And probably shake the living daylights out of her.
Which won’t happen because this is all one big mistake—a figment of Van’s vodka-fuelled imagination. I hope. I round a corner, my hands balled into fists as I resist the urge to hit the wall. To pound it until my knuckles bleed. To give my mind something else to focus on.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
I blink, coming back to the hallway and the man in front of me. And his strange company.
“Dylan. Yes.” I rouse myself, trying to focus on the next blockbuster Batman, the wheelchair, and the elderly woman dressed in a pink jumpsuit. “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”
“You look like you wish you were miles away,” the old woman says, her blue eyes penetrating.
“No, not at all,” I answer, the words almost rote. Drawling and arctic. A product of my station. My breeding. My fucked head. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Holland, have you?” I direct my words to the taller of the pair, though possibly the less sober.
“Hey, Juney. Did we see her on our race?”
“Buggered if I know,” she says, twisting her gaze to him. “I was too busy hanging on for dear life when you spun me ’round those corners.”
“You were yelling for me to go faster,” he retorts like a child. A large, multimillion-dollar earning child.
“Aye, ye have to grab excitement where ye can get it at my time of life.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it.” I make as though to pass when another thought occurs to me. “What about Griffin. Have you seen him?”
“Was that him in the tartan trews?” the old woman asks with a moue of distaste.
“Yes, that’s him.” I hadn’t seen anyone else dressed in such a ridiculous way.
“That one wouldn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground.”
The film star snickers. “This is his grace, the Duke of Dalforth, June.”
“Aye, and I’m sure he’s got an arse, too.”
“I’ve got a few of them,” I mutter, “because Griffin is my brother.”
He is until I strangle him.
“I know that look. Do ye believe in reincarnation?”