Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
“Uh, yes, sorry.” His impatient sigh confused her and she floundered.
“You apologize too much,” he said, his voice a low growl.
Fern gulped down her nerves, before blurting an instinctive, “Sorry”—then winced, when she realized what she’d just done and—“Sorry!”
Oh man, what was wrong with her?
“Yes, we’ve gathered that you’re sorry.” The impatient growl was now an insouciant purr and it put Fern even more on edge. “Do you mind progressing beyond these apologetic bleats? We’re running out of daylight fast.”
Fern decided to ignore his mockery in favor of more urgent matters.
“Yes, of course. Right. Beth called. We’re going shopping. Well, she asked if I wanted to go shopping and I said yes, but I just realized that I don’t… well…” She cringed. “I don’t have any money.”
“You do have money,” he told her, still that sexy, nonchalant purr. “Quite a lot of it, in fact, but it’s still tied up due to Abernathy’s bloody mindedness.”
Her stepfather’s attorneys had placed an injunction on the release of her funds and had petitioned for an emergency interdict, pending investigation around the “suspicious” circumstances of their marriage.
His efforts were being hampered by images of Fern and Cade walking on the beach two weeks ago. The photographs had been published in gossip rags around the world, last week. So many pictures of them holding hands, sitting in the sand, of Fern playing in the waves, of Cade giving her a piggyback ride. She didn’t even know who’d taken them. Cade had also claimed to be unaware of the lurking photographer.
But the sneaky pap had done them a favor in this instance. Because, even to Fern, they’d looked like a happily honeymooning couple.
It must’ve enraged Granger and the thought of his frustration was extremely satisfying. But it didn’t solve her immediate problem.
Cade had turned away from her and strode to his desk, while Fern helplessly admired his long, confident stride as he rounded it to open one of the drawers from which he withdrew an envelope. He tossed it on the uncluttered surface of his desk.
Task complete, Cade sat down on his massive leather chair, and nodded toward the envelope, steepling his fingers, as he watched her hesitant approach.
“What’s this?” she asked, reaching for the envelope with tentative fingers. It wasn’t very bulky; just a plain, white, standard-sized envelope. It wasn’t sealed, and she turned it over to lift the flap, reaching inside cautiously.
“It’s not a venomous spider, Fern,” he chastised. His voice had been mild but it still startled her into snatching her fingers away, and she looked up in time to see him roll his eyes.
Feeling foolish, she berated herself for being an idiot, and reached into the envelope again to withdraw an Amex Black credit card. She blinked at it in confusion and turned it over in her hands. It had her name on it.
Her married name, which—thanks to an expedited process—had been officially changed a week ago.
F I Hawthorne
“But how—?”
“Consider it an advance.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“I’ve set up a household account in both our names and transferred some funds into it. To all intents and purposes, it’s our money. For the management of our home.”
“But I haven’t contributed anything to it yet.”
“I’m confident that—once we’ve dealt with your stepfather’s petty, obstructive bullshit—you’ll repay whatever amount you’ve spent. Not that I give a damn if you do, mind you. But I suspect that you do. Give a damn that is…”
His gaze swept over her and he blinked, then frowned, then ever so slowly removed his glasses to sweep that blinky, frowny gaze over her once more.
“What the fuck are you wearing right now?” he asked, his voice curiously hoarse as his eyes paused—ever so briefly—on her naked thighs, before almost scurrying up to meet her stare.
For the first time, Fern remembered that she was still in her sleep clothes, and that—in her haste to talk to him—she hadn’t bothered to drag on a skirt as she normally would do.
Still her T-shirt was long enough to cover her to mid-thigh. She was showing less skin than she would in a bathing suit. Not that he’d seen her in a bathing suit either, mind.
And she was suddenly very conscious—when his gaze dropped to her chest—that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Especially when her traitorous nipples peaked beneath the burning intensity of his stare.
“Sor—” A shockingly menacing growl from her very urbane looking husband, halted the apology mid-word. She folded her arms over her chest and hunched her shoulders—pretty much the most apologetic body language ever—before shrugging defensively. “It’s my sleepshirt.”
“You sleep in a Cannibal Holocaust T-shirt?” He sounded understandably incredulous and Fern unfolded her arms to grasp the hem of her faded T-shirt and stretch it out in front of her, as she inspected the flaking red print on the black fabric.
“I also have Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes one and two, and Saw among others.”