Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
The minute I walked in, Battle started pouring me coffee.
He also started issuing commands.
“Sit. I’ll get your plate.”
I did as told, reached for my coffee cup and smiled at Prue. “How are you doing?”
“I think I slept for about an hour,” she told me something I could guess, considering her tired eyes and the messy edge to her fringe, which was always razor sharp.
Man, Chelsea was such a bitch.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Knee aches. Otherwise,” I showed her my scraped palms. She winced. “They look worse than they are.”
My filled plate clattered in front of me.
“Where are your bandages?” Battle demanded.
I looked up at him. “Honey, again, I’m fine. They need air. After brunch, I’ll clean them in the shower again, put on more Germolene and ask you to wrap them. But only so the antibiotic ointment can get to work without me rubbing it off. They don’t need the drama of being wrapped all the time.”
His lips thinned, he sat down, but he said nothing.
I looked down at my plate to see beans, mushrooms, sausage, hashbrowns, toast and a fried egg.
Perfect.
I grabbed my cutlery.
Battle got up and went to the window.
He peered out and came back, sitting again and saying, “Tempie and Hamish are here.”
I was hoping one day I’d know the house sounds so well, I’d be like the rest of the Talyns.
But I didn’t dwell on that thought because I had more important things on my mind.
“What? Why?” I asked after swallowing a forkful of mushroom-topped hashbrowns soaked in beans. “They aren’t due back until tonight. At least Tempie isn’t. Hamish wasn’t coming until the weekend.”
Battle studied me like I had a screw loose.
It was Prue who spoke.
“Vivi, you were attacked last night.”
“I wasn’t attacked,” I said to her. “I was chased in the rain.”
Prue looked to Battle.
I looked to Battle.
The homicidal expression had returned.
Mental note: do not refer to my midnight trauma with Battle in earshot.
I’d managed to stuff another bite in my gob before there was a commotion at the door, and then Bartholomew was loping in, ears and jowls flying, drool sailing, skidding to his rump between Battle and me.
“Hullo, my handsome boy,” I cooed as I pet his head.
“Don’t pet the dog with your injured hands,” Mr. Overprotective ordered.
“Battle,” I snapped. “For the last time, I’m fine!”
“I see Midnight Mayhem hasn’t broken your spirit,” Tempie drawled as she sashayed in with Hamish. “Brava, dearest.”
“You didn’t have to drive all the way to The Downs. As you just heard, I’m fine,” I told them.
“Man and dog can’t be separated for long,” she replied, sitting and reaching to the coffeepot (Hamish went straight to the sideboard). “Regardless, I had the most delicious phone call early this morning and I had to share about it in person.”
My gaze darted to Battle, worried myself, but more worried he would be that Rebecca might have also phoned her daughter.
“She’s right,” Hamish said from the sideboard. “Tempie’s side of it was so hilarious, I wished I could hear the whole thing.”
“Hilarious?” Battle asked.
Tempie took a sip of her coffee and put the cup back in its saucer. “Newton Renfrew.”
Battle stretched his neck ever-so-slowly to the side, and I didn’t think that was a good thing.
“Is that Chelsea’s father?” I asked hesitantly.
“One in the same,” she answered as Hamish put a scone in front of her and sat behind his own very full plate.
“Why the fuck is he calling you?” Battle demanded.
“Well, he didn’t share. But one would suppose he did it because he knew, if he attempted to speak to you, you’d tell him, he and his daughter could go fuck themselves.”
“I’d maybe have more words,” Battle said scarily. “But the message is spot on.”
“I had several words myself,” she stated while slathering butter on a bite of her scone, then going for the pot of jam. “And as you could probably guess, Mr. Renfrew is quite keen to keep his daughter’s name out of the papers and her face out of a courtroom.”
“I don’t give a fuck what he wants,” Battle replied.
“Yes, however, since he’ll be giving a million pounds to Vivi as an apology for his daughter’s erratic behavior, as well as another million pounds to the Talyn family, which we will in turn donate to the RSPCA,”—she looked to me—“I picked that charity, dearest, since you’re an animal person.” She returned to Battle. “Along with a written apology from Chelsea to Vivi, his assurances that she will be spending the next year…at least…in their flat in Sydney, and his solemn vow none of us will ever hear from her again, I thought you’d reconsider.”
I was so stuck on the first part, I forgot about shoving more of the full English on my plate into my mouth.
“He’s giving me a million pounds?”
She turned pensive. “Should I have demanded two?”