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)
“You’re not angry, are you?” she asks, all solemn-eyed.
“Well, I’m not happy,” he admits, though he fondly touches her head. “But we’ll work something else out for next week. Don’t worry.”
He turns to Maria and begins to ask if she knows when Anita will be back, but I can’t move my attention from the look on Daisy’s face. She looks troubled, her expression working through a mix of emotions as, by her sides, her fingers fidget and flick, an outlet for her anxiety.
I recognize that energy.
“Hello, lovely.” I find myself a little shocked that I seem to have adopted my own mother’s turn of address as I drop down and offer my hand. “My name is Lavender.”
“Hello,” she replies quietly. She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t hide how she seems to be carrying the burdens of the world. “I’m Daisy,” she says, slipping her hand into mine.
Kids don’t usually playact—they act up. I’ve never known one to hide their emotions so well. They usually amplify that shit. Or maybe that’s just my nephews and nieces. And me.
“Yes, I know,” I say as I give her tiny hand a delicate shake. “I’ve heard lots of wonderful things about you.” Ack! I just broke my own advice about the fruitlessness of lying to children. Worse, she doesn’t look convinced. I glance up at Raif’s back. Something tells me it isn’t him who makes her feel less than precious. “And I know they’re all true,” I add, digging my hole deeper, “because you’re named after a flower. Just like me.”
This earns me a genuine smile. And, ah, my heart! It’s like winning a game of bingo.
“I see you’ve met.”
I look up at Raif’s voice and notice Maria’s retreating form. “We have,” I say, standing.
“Was Gib sunny, Uncle Raif?”
“The weather is always sunny in Gibraltar.”
“Have you visited Gib?” Daisy turns her enthusiastic question my way.
“Er, yes.” My eyes drift to Raif’s and widen as I try to convey, help! What am I supposed to say?
“Uncle Raif has a house there. I like it better than the one in Monaco.”
“Monaco?” I repeat, my brows edging their way into my hairline.
“Florence, New York, and Sydney, Australia,” he says like he’s talking about hotels on a Monopoly board.
“Show-off,” I mutter in good humor, though.
“Did Maria order rocky road ice cream this week?” He takes the little girl by the hand and, half turning, gestures me along.
“Yes. I was allowed a scoop after dinner last night. Why?”
“I was thinking I might like a scoop myself.”
From behind, I shake my head. Smiles, lollies, or ice cream. It won’t make the news any easier.
The kitchen. Just wow. It’s huge, dark, and kind of sexy with dark gray cabinetry and a smoky-colored marble. At one end, a butler’s pantry stands open, at the other, is a glass behemoth built-in wine room, and between, a long kitchen island with a row of sleek velvet-covered stools.
“Sam, how are you?” Raif greets a twentysomething man dressed in jeans, a white tee, and a gray beanie as he appears around the open door of a Sub-Zero fridge. He moves the Beats headphones from his ears before wiping his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband before he meets Raif’s hand.
“Mr. Deveraux. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Sam. What’s on the menu tonight?”
He has a personal chef? Not even Whit has someone to cook for him.
“Sea bass in a glaze of honey, chili, soy, garlic, and ginger,” Sam answers, his hands moving through the air as though he’s nervous. “Served with sticky jasmine rice and vegetable ribbons, which Daisy helped prepare.” At this, the man’s larger hand meets Daisy’s tiny one in a crisp high five.
“Sounds delicious.” Raif opens the freezer door, pulling out a couple of pints of fancy-looking ice cream. “Rocky road or salted caramel?” He proffers both options in a seesaw motion.
“Rocky road for me, please!” Daisy says, clambering up onto a stool.
“Can I just have a cup of tea?” I’m stuffed from Polly’s Sunday roast. I wasn’t expecting to have to eat anything else today.
“Boring,” Raif playfully chastises, putting the choices down on the island. He looks at Sam. “Do we have a kettle?”
“Course,” he replies with a chuckle. Then he preempts Raif’s efforts by adding, “I’ll make it.”
“Honestly, that’s fine,” I put in. “Just point me in the right direction.” I suppress a sigh. I’d better get used to where everything is seeing as how I’m going to be living here.
Raif seems amused and the younger man almost offended.
“No, let me.” He moves toward the pantry. “We have Darjeeling, Lapsang, Earl Grey, and green.”
“Do you have any regular stuff? Tetley or maybe Yorkshire Tea.” My words curl up at the end, my shoulders lifting with embarrassment. I am the basic bitch of teas. Nowhere near sophisticated enough for the inhabitants of this house. “You know, funeral tea—the stuff strong enough to knock your socks off.”