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)
“You.” I swallow, willing this not to be true. “You’re the host?” My question, my accusation, swells at the end as I begin to tug at the undignified positioning of my skirt and apron.
“Yes,” he answers, his face suddenly falling into grave lines as he rights his kilt with a painful-looking grimace. “I’m sure there’s much we don’t know about each other, but—”
“Like the fact you didn’t mention you were a duke?” I spin away, not really believing it still.
“It’s not something I go around broadcasting,” he bites back stiffly.
“Sure.” I feel inexplicably crushed as he begins to right the cuffs of his shirt.
“Those who already know me know I am the head of a dukedom. I don’t advertise the fact to anyone else. I learned not to with experience.”
“How? You don’t even have the accent.” But then I realise neither does Isla. Neither do the boys.
“My father used to have this saying. If a cat is born in a stable, it does’nae make it a horse.” And wouldn’t you know it, he executes his answer with a perfectly Scottish accent.
“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.” I spin away angrily, not sure I need to hear anything else, not wanting to look at him. Not trusting myself to.
Fate had nothing to do with bringing me here, I think bitterly. But maybe he did.
“It means I am Scottish and that I’m the Duke of Dalforth, whether you believe it or not, whether I choose to use the accent or not.”
“You didn’t say,” I whisper almost myself.
“No.” He makes no mention of our other untruths this time. “It’s a title I rarely advertise. Became tired of being weighed to the last pound.”
I sense he doesn’t mean what he weighs. He’s talking pound sterling.
“There aren’t many of us about. Less still with our own teeth, hips, and knees. It tends to add to the novelty.”
“Well, I hate to point out the obvious, but it wasn’t your wallet I was looking for when I had my hands on your ass.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Is that what I’m doing here?” The catch in my voice is so slight, I take heart in the fact he probably didn’t hear it. But just in case, I push on with my offensive. “Did you move me all the way up here just to fuck me?” Offensive and offending and loud, I hate how I shuffle back as he takes a step closer.
“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he utters, his diction sharp. “Because you’re not a fucking waitress.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you,” I mutter, jerkily slapping the apron to my body and tightening the strings at my back, “but that thing I had in my hand in the other room? That was no heraldic shield. It was a serving tray. And those weird-looking balls? I’m told those are what you people call hors d’oeuvres.” I answer in the most hick accent I can carry off. “Add in this,” I flick my apron, “and I’d say your hypothesis is way off. Also, I prefer server to waitress, thank you.”
Chest heaving, I say no more. But neither does he, though his icy glare speaks volumes that I pretend not to understand.
“I really have no idea what you’re doing here,” he says eventually, his words piercing like an insult.
“I came because I was offered a job,” I answer calmly, though I can’t resist the urge to fold my arms. “Are you trying to tell me you had nothing to do with that?”
“Do you think I would’ve embarrassed myself out there,” he says, swinging his arm wide, “if I’d known you were here? Do you think I would’ve waited these weeks? Stayed away?”
“I don’t know what to think. You said you’d help me get a job, not that you were interested in me!” But I’m still processing his words as I make my retort.
“You have no idea what it took not to pursue you,” he says, his nostrils flaring angrily, his hands balled into fists by his sides.
“I . . .” I don’t know what to think.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about me, Holland,” he dares, stepping closer. “Tell me that wasn’t shock out there but fucking kismet.”
“I don’t know what that was, Alexander,” I lie. “I mean, is that even your name?”
“Of course it’s my fucking name,” he bellows, the sound echoing through the room.
“Your sister calls you Sandy.” I might not be able to cock a brow, but I can surely cock a hip, even if my knees are shaking. This is too much. To want him. To almost have him.
“Sandy is short for Alexander. Ask any Scotsman, and he’ll confirm that, seeing as how my word means so very little to you.” He closes his eyes, his broad chest expanding and falling with a deep breath. Then he begins again. “I know you think I haven’t told you the truth, and I’m sure in some respects you’re right, but the fact remains, I made a spectacle of myself out there because I want you. Because I have thought of little else but you for weeks. For months. I don’t want to want you, Holland, but God help me, I fucking do.”