Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“That’s a lot of titles,” I mused.
“It’s a very old line,” Esme replied. “Predates the Windermere line by around ninety years.”
“Do you have more than one? Title?” I asked Max.
He nodded. “An earldom and a marquise.”
“Huh. I never knew that.”
Esme’s lips twitched. “It’s not like there’s anyone else around to use them.”
“Grandma,” Max mumbled.
I fought back a laugh. “So what do they do? Do Stuart and William use their titles?”
“Of course they do. They’re entitled to them, and to refuse them would be an insult to Angus. It’s a tetchy enough relationship without that,” Esme explained. “Plus, there are still matters of the estate that must be discussed, family feud or otherwise, but that’s all they discuss. I believe William and Freya are closer to Angus and Morag than their parents are.”
“She’s getting married there next March,” Max said. “At Glenroch Castle.”
“Freya is?”
“Yes. The invitation is on the fridge.”
“Oh. I thought that was my next dentist appointment.”
He pressed his lips together and dropped his chin to his chest.
“That could work,” I mused, tapping my nails against the laptop. “Of course, the hero is the duke, but that could make the resolution easier. Was Morag ever all right with the marriage?”
Esme paused. “I don’t know, you know. I never asked her. Honestly, both of them are quite traditional, and I’m not sure she ever would speak against Angus. Especially not when Stuart and Katie got married thirty-nine years ago. The world was a very different place then, especially for the aristocracy. We can be quite behind the times.”
“That helps, actually. Thank you. I think you might have just solved my plot hole.” I smiled at her.
She clapped her hands against her thighs and stood up. “Then I shall look for my name in the acknowledgements.”
Max pinched the bridge of his nose, and Esme left the library in a swish of her green floral skirt and a cloud of airy perfume that made me want to sneeze.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Max said, standing up, too. “Let you get that down on paper.”
“Actually, I think I’m going to let it simmer for a while. It’s not quite clicked into place yet.” I hit ctrl-S to save the document even though it automatically saved every three seconds.
“Well, I’m going to clean the goats out. Do you want to come with me?”
“To clean the goats? It’s not the best offer I’ve ever had.”
“To see your cat,” he replied wryly, fighting back a smile. “No doubt he’s on top of the hay bales, sleeping.”
“Oh, that’s a much better idea. As long as you don’t rope me into cleaning up goat poop.”
He shook his head. “I would never.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
ELLIE
Liar, Liar, Panties on Fireeee
“I cannot believe you’ve roped me into cleaning up goat poop.”
“You offered!”
“Bloody hardly,” I retorted with a snort of derision. “At no point did I ever say the words, ‘Hey, Max, would you like some help scooping up those piles of shit?’”
He stabbed the fork into a load of hay and rested his elbow on top of the handle, looking over at me. “Ellie.”
“I also don’t understand why you took a shower right before you decided to get knee-deep in shitty goat bedding, but that’s none of my business.” I hauled a load of dirty hay from the bedding area to the trailer by the door. It was absolute hell doing this, and it was giving me an idea for my next book.
A city girl dumped on a farm who has to help out.
Not that I was a city girl. I was a country girl at heart, but not all country girls wanted to haul goat shit around.
It was me.
I didn’t want to haul goat shit around.
“Why don’t you sit down and let me do it?” Max asked, smirking. “There’s not that much left to do.”
“No. I’m not a quitter. I don’t give up.”
“You were going to quit writing earlier.”
“I quit writing twenty times a day. Minimum. It means nothing.” I glared over at him. “Stop standing there staring at me.”
“I like the view.”
“Stop flirting with me.”
“Oh, yes. There’s nothing sexier than flirting with a woman who has goat poop on her dress.”
I gasped, letting go of the fork so I could examine my dress. It clattered to the ground with an almighty thud that disturbed Winston and earnt me a glare from his usual spot on top of the hay bales.
There was no way I was wearing a dose of goat shit. Absolutely not. I hadn’t fallen over or brushed against anything, so how was it possible to have it on me?
I scrambled with the material of the skirt, contorting my body this way and that way, peering over my shoulder and twisting my arms into uncomfortable positions to look for the poop Max claimed was on me.
And there it was.
On my bum.
A big smear of brown sludge was on the back of my dress, right where I’d sit down.