Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
I find myself idling in the huge bay window, my breath fogging the old panes of glass before I turn and walk deeper into the room, deciding it’s a little too cold for this babe. And Matilda. Jokes! What can I say? Roman has been rubbing off on me.
But that’s another (dirty) story.
Anyway, Holland housed us in a suite in one of the “younger” parts of the castle. Two bedrooms, both with bathrooms, and one drawing room between. The rooms are Georgian, Holland said, before making some comment about how cold the older medieval wing is. All I can say is yikes! I know it’s December in Scotland, but it is a wee bit chilly! But goodness, the castle is a beautiful building. It’s pretty cool to be related to a duchess. Especially when she lives in her very own version of Hogwarts.
“What’s on the agenda for the rest of the day?” Roman stands, meeting us in the centre of the room, his steps sauntering and his eyes warm.
“I thought after the breakfast you’d eaten”—in the family dining room, not the formal dining room, don’t you know—“you’d want to go back to bed.”
“Was that an invitation?” My husband’s words end in a playful curl.
“Uncle Roman thinks haggis breath is sexy,” I whisper to Matilda who takes the opportunity to wrap her fingers in my hair. “Ow!”
“It was black pudding, not Haggis,” he says with a laugh, helping untangle the strands. “I’m told haggis puts hairs on your chest.”
“You know I love your pelt.” It’s more a delicious dappling of dark hair, but I do like to tease him.
“Haggis also puts lead in your pencil, I’m told.”
“I think you’re okay on that front, too.” I pat his chest placatingly. The lead in my man’s pencil has certainly done the job, so to speak.
“My pencil can be led anywhere by you. Where my little love lead, it follows. Pointing like an arrow.”
“I think it should stay where it is while I take Miss Matilda here back to her momma without her mittens.”
“Hang on.” A burst of hot deliciousness explodes at my hip as he stills me, curling his hand there. “Wait a minute.”
“Has the baby spit up?” I glance down, expecting to find a stain on my sweater.
“No, nothing like that.” As though he needed to secure my compliance, his hand tightens. When I look up, he smiles. It feels like a lick of warmth to my stomach.
“What is it?”
“I was just imagining what you looked like holding Wilder when he was the same age.”
I duck my head because the intensity of his look is a little hard to take. It’s been six months since we’ve been official. Six months since Roman moved in, and everything just seemed to click into place. It turned out it was never a question of me needing time for myself or working out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Because what I want to do is him. Sorry, I mean what I want is to do whatever, as long as it’s with him.
We’ve begun to look at businesses for sale near Mookatill, something we can run together because we don’t like being apart. We’ve already had seven years of that. The way Roman set up High Grounds means it’s practically running itself these days. Jenner even seems to enjoy his position as assistant manager.
We’re in no hurry to figure everything out right now, but exciting times are coming, and I can’t wait to share them with him. Share the news with him. Share this future with him.
“I love you, Roman. And I love the way you love me.”
“If you hurry back from returning the baby, we might have time enough for me to love you before Wilder comes in from the snow.”
I laugh, then I realise he’s being serious.
So I return Matilda to Chastity, then hurry back to the one person guaranteed to keep me warm.
* * *
ROMAN
“Well, Dougal has outdone himself again,” Holland says, slumping back in her chair. “I am going to have to take up jogging or something. A personal chef is all well and good, but not one who uses whole sticks of butter in everything he cooks.”
“Jogging.” Next to me, my wife snorts behind her glass of champagne. The best thing about being in Scotland, at least, for me, is the amount of booze served with these fancy dinners. My wife is such a gorgeous lightweight. She’s recently taken to drinking champagne, and Holland likes to make sure that she has her own special bottle at dinner. When she’s had a glass or three, she turns into a tiger in the bedroom. And I am just thrilled to be mauled.
“I can jog,” Holland retorts, sending her sister an affectionate yet narrow-eyed glance. “I used to run track in high school.”