Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 115435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
God, he smells good.
I wonder if he went to Cambridge? Or was this a souvenir?
Something tells me he wouldn’t buy a hoodie like this unless it was his school.
With a shrug, I slip into sneakers and head downstairs, where I brew myself a cup of coffee, then slip out the sliding glass doors off the massive kitchen onto the expansive grassy area that leads to a path overlooking the sea.
When I reach the end of the path, roughly twenty yards from the side of the cliffs, I take a long, deep breath and stare out at the ocean.
It’s fucking gorgeous here.
Birds fly overhead, floating on the wind. The water crashes on the rocks below, sending up a symphony of sound that drowns out everything else. For the first time since I can remember, there’s no traffic in my head. The white noise from the ocean drowns it out, and I can just … be.
The sun has barely crested over the green hills, casting the sky in light pink, and I take another long, deep breath, pulling it all in.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. I’ve heard stories of Ireland being green, but it’s … green. As if it invented the word. And it’s the same color as my man’s eyes.
I turn to look at the enormous stone mansion and see Connor walking toward me in black joggers and a hoodie similar to the one I’m wearing, holding his own mug of coffee, those Irish eyes smiling at me over the rim.
He’s happy here.
“I needed to come see it,” I say when he reaches me and wraps his arm around me to pull me into his side. “I couldn’t wait.”
“You should have woken me, angel.”
I wrinkle my nose at him and sip my coffee. “Did you grow up in this house?”
“No. Ma and Da still own that house. It’s about fifteen kilometers from here. Unless you have objections, we’ll be going there this evening for dinner.”
“I don’t have any objections. I like your parents.”
I was able to spend some time with them in London when we were there for Skyla and Mik’s performance, and Connor’s parents have been to Montana several times.
They’ve been nothing but nice to me. Of course, that was before their son and I were a couple. I wonder if they’ll be as welcoming, knowing that we’re in a relationship.
“Don’t overthink it.” He kisses my head, and we turn back to the ocean. “It’s going to be fine. What do you think of the view?”
“Meh, it’s fine.”
I feel him staring down at me, and I can’t hold back the laughter.
“Are you kidding me? Holy shit, Connor, this is gorgeous.”
He grins, and his eyes drift down to the hoodie, and they narrow. “I like that.”
I sip my coffee. “The fact that I stole your sweatshirt?”
“You wrapped up in my alma mater,” he says, those blazing green orbs returning to my face. “Fascinating.”
He’s more relaxed here. I noticed it the second we stepped off the plane last night. It’s like he’s in the one place where he can drop his guard, and although I love him every day, this side of him is dreamy, too. And we all know how much I love his casual side. Connor is as sexy as sin in a suit, but Christ on a cracker, the things he does to me when he’s let his proverbial hair down and is in relax mode?
My vagina is weeping with joy.
“I have a question,” he says as I sip coffee and breathe in the sea air and ogle my man.
“Right now, dressed like that, I’ll give you anything you want, billionaire.”
His lips twitch, and he ghosts his fingertip down the bridge of my nose. “It’s just lounge pants, bumble.”
“It’s not just anything. Okay, focus. What’s your question?”
“What’s your favorite book?”
I pause, then frown up at him. Christ, he’s tall.
“Like my favorite book this year so far? Or my favorite broken down by trope or genre?”
“Of all time,” he replies, skimming his hand up and down my arm.
“I don’t know if that exists for me,” I reply honestly. “I’ve read thousands of books, I’m sure. If you want to talk classics—”
“Start there,” he agrees.
“Well, there’s a list. Little Women, of course. Jane Eyre. To Kill a Mockingbird, Anna Karenina, The Count of Monte Cristo. I read Wuthering Heights every year at Christmas.”
“You do?” He kisses my forehead and smiles down at me. “Why?”
“Because it’s heartbreaking and wonderful and like visiting an old friend. It’s an interesting story about greed and family, and well … I like it. Finding a first edition is almost impossible.”
Now his gaze tightens, obviously interested in what I’m telling him.
“Why?”
“Well, it was originally published under the name Ellis Bell rather than using her real name, Emily Brontë. It was also her only novel. She died at just thirty years old. Anyway, finding a copy of Wuthering Heights with Ellis Bell listed as the author isn’t easy to do and quite expensive.”