Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
At the green-painted door with a large floral wreath, Lavender turns as she rests her foot on a Victorian-tiled step. “I hope you’re prepared for a shitstorm.”
“I thought it was every mother’s dream to see their daughter married well.”
“What century are you from?” She scoffs.
“You think she won’t like me?” That’s impossible once I turn on the charm.
“My mum has the detection skills of an MI5 operative. She’s never going to believe this is real.” Her gaze flicks down my body. “You’re just not my type.”
She turns back to the front door, and I snake my arm around her waist, pulling her ass against me. Her hair smells of coconut, and I could live off her tiny, involuntary gasp. “Out on the terrace yesterday, you convinced me otherwise.”
“Sex is—”
Ninety percent of my waking thoughts since Friday night. Tightening my grip, I scrape my teeth lightly down her neck. “Now convince them.”
I let go, step back, and watch her shoulders rise, then fall with her intake of breath.
“I suppose you’d better come in.” She turns the obnoxiously large brass handle, and the door swings open.
The scent of roasting lamb hits me immediately, undertones of garlic and lemon becoming clear as I follow her into a Morris Print-wallpapered hall. To the left, dark-stained stairs run upward, the newel post shining a kaleidoscope of colors, thanks to the sun beaming in through the stained glass skylight above the closing door.
The Whittington family home is delightfully middle-class. A Victorian semi-detached red brick on a leafy London street. It’s not what I was expecting for the family home of a fintech billionaire, but maybe Leif Whittington doesn’t share.
I find myself frowning as I watch Lavender pull the sleeve of her sweater down to her fingertips, hiding her ring. Like that’ll help.
“Lavender’s here!” A girlish voice precedes a girl whose head pops from a tall door to the right. A little younger than Lavender, her long ponytail slips over her shoulder, blond hair to Lavender’s dark. “And she’s brought someone.” The girl’s eyes flick over me, her disinterest clear.
Maybe all Whittington women like to play it cool. Or maybe it really is my age.
I admit I hadn’t given a thought to Lavender’s age until I had her passport in my hand. I’d had Lachlan look into her background and just assumed, especially after meeting her, she was older. Who the fuck owns an art gallery at the age of just twenty-four?
By the time I realized, it was too late to do anything about it. There was too much at stake to back out. Besides, wasn’t I already craving her? And it’s not like she’s a kid. So the girl can keep her disinterest, and my wife can keep pretending because I know she’s hot for me.
I give my head a tiny shake. My wife. What the fuck is it about that?
“This is Primrose,” Lavender says without giving me a chance to reply. “Tell-a-phone, tell-a-graph, tell-a-Primrose,” she adds, turning from me to slip out of her jacket. She throws it on an antique coat stand next to which is an umbrella holder in the shape of an elephant foot with hot-pink toenails. She doesn’t see her sister pull a childish face before closing the door.
“So that was Primrose,” Lavender says, turning to face me. “Younger sister. Pain in the bum. Tattletale, perky, annoying Goody Two-shoes.”
“Ah, sisters.” Heart pang. It’s a thing. And Lavender’s sudden glance is quizzical. “I used to have a sister.” The lightness in my answer costs me, and Lavender doesn’t miss it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, intuiting my meaning. “I have a couple spare if you’re interested.”
“You don’t really mean that.” I suppose, as the old adage goes, you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. And then it’s just too fucking late to do anything about it.
“Try me,” she says, swinging away.
“Did you bring Tod, darling?” a voice asks from the depths of the house.
“No,” Lavender calls back. She turns to me. “And here comes my mother. Remember what I said about her spy skills.”
A woman walks barefooted along the dark wood hallway toward us. “I thought Primrose said you’d brought someone with you,” she calls, drying her hands on the flowery apron tied around her waist. It covers a denim-colored dress that skims her tanned knees.
Tall and striking, though blond hair to Lavender’s dark, the woman is quite obviously her mother. The similarity in their finely boned features is a dead giveaway.
“No Tod today.” Lavender’s answer rises at the end like a question.
“Sorry?” Her mother turns a warm smile my way. “Were you here to see Brin?”
“Mum!” Lavender complains with an almost violent roll of her eyes.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I get that wrong?” Her smile doesn’t waver as her attention jumps between us. “Let me start again. Polly,” she says, offering me her hand.