Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
“I’m trying to know you. I want to.”
“Don’t.” I study the chipped nail polish on my big toe. If I can’t keep the principal of a rural middle school, how the hell could I keep a duke? “Please, just . . . don’t.”
Don’t tempt me.
You’ll only break me.
And my heart couldn’t take that.
“I think this is the most honest conversation we’ve had,” his low tone rumbles.
“Ours hasn’t been a connection of words.” I wince immediately at how that sounded and glance out at the hammering rain so he can’t see my lie.
“I wish I’d done as Isla suggested, insisted really, when I’d discovered you here.”
“You mean you wish you’d left.” I don’t know if that would’ve been better or worse. But when he nods, my heart gives a painful pang, and I discover I already know.
“I don’t mean how you think. If I’d left, I could’ve come back periodically. Weekends perhaps. I could’ve given us time to get to know one another better. Perhaps you would’ve been surer of me then.” His eyes drink me in, but somehow, the set of his mouth seems reflective. “It might’ve worked for you,” he adds, “but for me, there was only one way to go once I found you in my path again.”
As the saying goes, the only path is through.
To push through until we burned to an inevitable end, I guess.
“Something else that’s been bothering me about something you said. You aren’t my type.” Our eyes lock, and I watch as his expression seems to flit through a range of emotions: annoyance, disbelief, disappointment, ending in something that looks like pity. “You’re so wrong, you know.”
I open my mouth to protest—to remind him how he’d looked at me when I’d gripped his arm outside of the hotel in London, or maybe to say how he’d managed to resist me, not to tell me any of this, standing in that cold lane, him in his tuxedo and me in my white-frilled apron—but I don’t get the chance as he sweeps my feet from under me.
“You see, Holland, your difference has been beautiful to me all along.”
41
Holly
“I spy with my little eye, something beginning with quwa.”
“You mean q,” Hugh replies with the kind of superiority only an older sibling possesses.
“No, I don’t,” Archie protests. “I’m allowed to spell it frenetically, aren’t I, Mummy? I’m only six, remember.”
“It’s phonetically,” Isla corrects patiently, glancing at her progeny through the rear-view mirror. “And, yes, I think an allowance might be made for Archie’s age, Hugh.”
“Are you sure I can’t have my iPad back?” he complains.
“The thing has been glued to your hand almost the entire way. Just play with your brother for a little while.”
“Fine,” he grates out, muttering, “Quality time,” aggressively.
“That’s the spirit,” his mother replies, not sounding too impressed at his sass.
“No, that’s my guess.” He huffs out a hard breath. “Oh, never mind.”
“The joys of travelling with children.” Isla glances at me briefly as the car slows at a crossroads, and she flicks on the turning signal. “It could be worse. You could be stuck in the car with Griffin. I’ve heard he has a liking for classic rock.”
There was no way I was travelling to the Duffys’ residence for this birthday party with Griffin. Apart from not being in the mood to deal with him, I wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to get all handsy. It’s not like there’s been much need to keep up the charade, but it hasn’t stopped him from making those overtures. Or uttering more innuendo than The Great British Bake Off. I can’t believe I’d been persuaded to come at all, but I guess Isla is right. It would be a shame to miss out on whatever opportunities might come up.
Besides, I wasn’t about to stay behind and mope around the castle by myself. Especially when there’s every chance Alexander might be there. I can look without touching, I tell myself.
“Griffin and classic rock,” I repeat. “You’re sure he’s not more of a K-Pop kind of guy?” Isla’s chuckle is short-lived as I ask, “What kind of music does your brother like?”
Urgh!
“Sandy?” I choose not to examine the ripple of delight in her expression. “He has quite eclectic tastes. You might find him listening to The Beatles or Simple Minds. The Strokes.”
“Sometimes, he listens to boring classical music,” Hugh complains. “All pianos and sadness.”
“I caught him listening to The Cardigans last week.” She pulls a distasteful expression as she turns the steering wheel to the right. “Lovefool, of all things. I suppose love does make fools of us all,” she adds in a tone I’m probably not meant to hear.
“I like it when he plays the song about the crying clown.”
“I don’t think I know that one, sweetie.” Isla glances conspiratorially my way, and like a well-played guitar, Archie launches into a tuneless rendition of “The Tears of a Clown”.