Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
There is a flicker of relief in Miss Steadman’s eyes as she nods. “Yes, that would work. I can definitely arrange that.”
Tom, the head gardener, mutters a gruff thanks. He is already eyeing the door.
They all disperse, and in less than an hour, the house is ours—mine, Amelia’s, Jason’s—a big, empty canvas for our stolen time. I call my secretary to rearrange my calendar so that I can work remotely and only come in if I am absolutely needed. I have given everything to my business and the office can wait for me now; Amelia can’t.
I head to the kitchen, the marble counters gleaming, the air scented with the lingering coffee Maria left behind. I rummage through the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, a loaf of sourdough, determined to make breakfast, something special for Amelia and Jason. I decide on a full English breakfast and French toast with maple syrup. A memory from our summer mornings in the Fitzwilliam kitchen. I whisk eggs with cinnamon and vanilla, the batter thick and fragrant, my hands moving with a care I haven’t felt in years. The sizzle of bacon fills the air, the rich, smoky scent curling up the stairs.
As I expected, footsteps patter down the stairs, light and quick. Jason appears, his dark curls tousled, wearing his blue pajamas with little stars all over them. His gray eyes are wide with surprise. He pauses at the doorway. “Daddy?” he asks as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Where’s Maria? Where’s everyone?”
I smile, flipping a slice of toast in the pan, the golden crust hissing softly. “They’re all on vacation, buddy,” I say, my tone warm. “I’m here today and in charge. I thought we’d have breakfast with Amelia. Sound good?”
He nods, a big grin breaking through, and my heart swells with contentment. My son and I should be closer. I decide in that moment that I am going to spend more time with him and me alone. It is never the same between us when Sara is around. Somehow, he is more aloof and withdrawn.
“Wash these,” I say, handing him a bowl of strawberries, their red skins glossy.
“Sure,” he agrees, almost snatching the bowl off me. He sets to work, the water splashing all over the place.
I focus on finishing the toast, and then I stack them high on a tray with crisp bacon.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” I tell him. “Wait at the table. I’ll go get Aunt Amelia.”
“Okay."
Chapter
Twenty-Three
AMELIA
The morning light slips in and bathes the room in a dreamlike haze. My body feels like it’s been wrung out, every muscle aching, and my limbs heavy as if they’ve melted into the mattress. I’m exhausted, bone-deep, the kind of tired that clings like damp cotton. I can’t move, I don’t want to.
Last night pulses through me vividly—Max’s hands, possessive and tender, his lips, hot and hungry, his body, hard and unyielding, pressing me into the bed. I bit my lip raw to keep quiet, terrified Jason might hear down the hall, but damn, it was good. My skin still hums, tingling with the memory of his touch.
“Amelia, I missed you. God, how I missed you,” echoes in my ears like a vow I can’t unhear.
We’re playing with fire, and every stolen moment risks burning it all down.
I close my eyes, my breath shallow, and let the images flood me. My heart thumps, a wild, unsteady beat as my hand reaches out to the empty space beside me. The sheet is already cold, a stark void where his warmth should be. He’s gone, slipped away before dawn to protect us from Jason’s curious eyes, but the absence cuts, a sharp pang that twists in my chest. I want him here, curled around me, his breath warm on my neck.
A soft knock jolts me. My heart leaps, panic sparking through the haze. Is something wrong? Maria? Max? One of the maids? My arms feel heavy as I pull the duvet higher, covering my bare skin, my body still tender from him.
“Come in,” I call, my voice rough, cracked from sleep.
The door opens, and Max steps through, his presence filling the room like a storm rolling in. A black T-shirt clings to his broad chest, and his jeans are low on his hips. His dark hair tousled as he’s been up for hours wrestling with the same thoughts tearing through me. His blue eyes meet mine. They are warm but shadowed, a flicker of need that makes my pulse race. I sit up, clutching the duvet to my chest, suddenly shy, exposed, wondering if he sees the chaos in me, or the way I’m unraveling under his gaze.
“Hey,” he says, his voice wraps around me like a soft blanket.
He crosses the room, his steps sure, and sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the faint scent of cedar soap. My naked body waking under his nearness, fights the restraint I’m trying to hold onto.