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)
“Your life is not falling apart,” I murmur, bringing my mouth to her ear. But dear God. Where do I go on from here? Do I tell her how I want her there, by my side? How I need her? How I can’t imagine a life without her? How I was already half in love with her before either of us had set foot in the castle?
I might not have my riding boots and jodhpurs on, but I can still be the arsehole duke.
“When I thought I couldn’t offer you long-term devotion, I was fooling myself. I might be selfish in my motivations, perhaps even a little morally corrupt because
I no longer care whether you deserve to be embroiled in the clusterfuck that is my life because I can only think how I can keep you here. If that makes me selfish or even morally corrupt, I really don’t give a fuck.
Now, downstairs is a woman who means nothing to me. A woman who has no hold over me.”
“You’re fooling yourself,” she whispers with a sad shake of her head.
“And I’m here with you because Griffin assures me he can handle this.” By legal means or Russian led otherwise, I really no longer care.
“Is that the same Griffin you tag teamed your wife with?” With this, she pulls against me and tries to stamp on my foot.
“Yes,” I answer simply, sidestepping her efforts. “We were both different people then. I didn’t know he was my brother. He was just a pretty face in a club we used to play at.” Should I tell her the whole truth? “A club I once owned a very long time ago.”
“Oh, you just keep setting them up for me, don’t you?”
“Reasons to leave?” I find myself asking. “Except you forget,” I whisper a touch threateningly, “I’m not letting you go.”
“You can’t keep me here.”
“I beg to differ.
“You have to let me go.” This time, her words are a little plaintive.
“You are better than this, Holland. We both are. I know we both want, on some level, to be seen as someone else. Someone better. Someone stronger. Someone without a past. I’m no innocent, and I’ve been guilty of bad judgement and bad taste. Of living in fear of becoming just another in that long line of men who came before me, instead of recognising myself for who I truly am. I’m done with that. There’s no hiding from our experiences and there’s no denying who we are. But we can be better, stronger, more. Because together, you and I, we’re a whole new entity.”
“But if I leave,” she says in a small voice, “she has no hold over you, and you won’t be seen as that man.”
“But I am that man. I was that man. If you leave, my heart will break. There’s no contest, my love. And this is monumental.” I press a kiss to her cheek as I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. “You remember I said I was going to do something monumental this morning?”
“Yes,” she whispers, taking the phone from my hand and staring down at it.
There on the screen is the photograph I’d taken this morning. We’re in bed together, white sheets and wide smiles, her dark hair in disarray and my jaw covered in sandy bristles. There will be no disputing the facts; it’s perfectly obvious what we’ve been up to. Our smiles. The sheets. Her hair. And though there’s little flesh on show, it’s obvious we’re both naked.
“Now, this,” I say, sliding the image closed and opening the newly installed app, I navigate to Kilbair Castle’s Instagram page.
“What are you doing?”
“Isla gave me the login details. I have more followers than you. Are you jealous?”
“Alexander, what are you doing?”
“See, I’ve already loaded the photograph. Isla tried to talk to me about hashtags, but we’ll ignore that for now, and I’ll just finish up with my post. Post?” Over her shoulder, I tilt my head in question.
“Yes, it’s post,” she murmurs.
“Good. I’ve got the lingo down. It’s a good photograph, isn’t it?”
“It’s wonderful, but if you post it—”
“Oh, I’m not going to post it.”
Holland stills in my arms, her fingers infinitesimally tightening around my phone.
“I think sometimes our lives have to be shaken and thrown about like a leaf blown from a tree if we’re to get to be where we’re meant to be. Where are we meant to be, Holland?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers.
“I think you do. We’re meant to be in each other’s arms. I think you know that, too. But the rest is up to you.”
With that, I leave her in her messy room with my phone still in her hand.
Epilogue
Holly
“So, do you consider yourself a Scot or an American?”
I pretend to consider the question like it hasn’t been asked already a hundred times.