Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“I’ve missed you,” she says affectionately.
“I’ve missed you too.” His tone speaks of sentiment.
“You can’t keep shutting me out. Not after everything we’ve been through.”
“Life is… complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Oh fuck. An optimist. I think I must snort as she glances toward the staircase.
I step backwards, my heel striking the edge of the stair. The tiny sound seems deafening, but Luc doesn’t call my name. He’s too occupied with the woman whose familiar hands touch him.
My overwhelming instinct is to turn and flee. To move quickly and silently until I reach the landing. Cowardice would be so much easier. I could slip into my room, close door and pretend… what?
That I don’t care?
That I don’t matter?
That I would let another man treat me badly—again?
That’s not happening.
Because primroses are brave. Even if he didn’t mean it when he said it. They’re also a little ridiculous, I decide, as I lift my chin and continue down the staircase.
Luc glances my way—not because I’m stomping like a troll or anything—and does a double take. Maybe he forgot I was here. However temporarily.
But then, for one unguarded second, something moves across his face—a flicker of the man who whispered such beautiful words against my skin. The woman’s gaze follows, and she makes a noise that sounds a little like astonishment. But whatever that was, it rapidly wipes his face clean.
“Primrose.” He turns to face me, his tone cool but courteous. “I didn’t realize you were there.”
No shit, Sherlock.
But I guess that the woman remains tucked tightly against his side says it all. Up close, she looks sort of ageless, like she could be aged anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. My money is on forty-plus with access to an excellent dermatologist. She’s tall and elegantly trim and has the kind of effortless elegance that makes me feel like I’ve dressed myself from the charity bin.
Her gaze flicks over me with a gleaming sort of interest as I stand in front of the pair.
“This is Primrose,” Luc offers eventually. “The children’s nanny.”
Ouch. And I don’t say that for funsies because that really fucking hurt. Arsehole. What a douche. It’s not that I expected him to offer up the truth—to say that I’m the woman he whispers sweet filthy French nothings to. The woman he’s been chasing for weeks.
Just the nanny.
I throw out my hand and bend forward, rather than step closer. I don’t want to risk being anywhere near his throat. He might accidentally-on-purpose find my fist in it. “It’s Dr Whittington, actually.”
Luc’s eyes sharpen. He looks unimpressed.
I smile the most pleasant smile I rustle up from my arsenal. “I’m the nanny, but only temporarily.” Cue sliding him a stinking look. If you think I’m staying here any longer, you’re mistaken, friend.
“How intriguing.” The woman’s gaze travels over me again, slower this time. “I don’t remember you telling me you had a new nanny,” she adds, glancing his way.
“Because we haven’t spoken in a few weeks.”
“Terrible rogue,” she says, puckering her lips as she squeezes his cheek. “We’ve exchanged dozens of texts. You might’ve mentioned you had a new nanny. Especially someone as interesting as Dr Whittington here.” She releases Luc only to come closer, her hand lingering on his arm until the last possible moment.
“Rose, this is Amélie,” he says begrudgingly. I wait to hear him add, “my oldest friend” or “my sister”or “my bestie”. Something! But nope. Maybe it’s just as well because the way she’s looking at him isn’t exactly sisterly. There’s something avaricious about those brown eyes.
She offers me her hand. “Enchantée, Docteur Whittington.”
Her fingers close warmly around mine and there they remain a fraction longer than convention dictates. Some kind of challenge?
“Likewise,” I answer, meaning and sounding the opposite. I do have things I’d rather be doing right now. Like cleaning my toenails. Reviewing Felix’s taste in porn. Or stabbing this asshole with a butter knife.
“What kind of docteur?”
“Sorry?”
“What kind of docteur are you?” The second times she asks, her question is accompanied by a tinkling laugh.
“Medical.” I don’t add my specialty.
“Pretty, clever, and useful.” She glances back at Luc as the information means something.
“Yeah, I suppose I have been useful.” I slide him a loathsome look. “For an old codger like him.”
Even her laughter sounds expensive. “This is so… interesting.”
“I’m not sure Monsieur du Beaumont thinks so.” I clock the way her eyes dart between us and begin to worry he might’ve invited one of his freaky friends to join us. Upping the ante, so to speak.
“That’s the thing, cheri. You never can quite tell what’s going on behind that handsome facade of his.”
“So I’m beginning to find,” I mutter. “If you’ll excuse me.” I begin to turn but don’t get far.
“Luc, this is excellent!”
If you say so.
“Why didn’t you say something!” she all but exclaims.
His answer is cool by contrast. “What is there to tell?”