Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
My cheeks flushed even hotter, and I wanted to run away.
Don’t you dare, treasure. I heard my grandfather’s growled words in my head as if he were there beside me. It’s time to go after what you want. You’ve already proven to yourself what you’re worth.
Okay, Grandpa, I thought. For you and for me. My keen perception might tell me that Mr. Cavendish was a wounded, cynical aristocrat who would lash out at anyone who dared get too close to him … but it also told me he was the right man for the job. I might not be a fan of him as a person, but as a creator, there was no one quite like him. And finally, I was beginning to believe in myself. Moreover, I’d promised Grandpa that I’d start living.
I threw back my shoulders. “I—I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Cavendish.”
He searched my eyes, and I noted the spark of curiosity glinting in his. Suddenly, he looked taken aback, like he’d never seen me before. His perusal grew so intense, I could feel my nerves getting the better of me again. I nibbled nervously on my lip, trying to draw from that well of courage the memory of my grandfather had opened inside me.
“Well?” Mr. Cavendish grimaced. “Sarah, is it?”
Despite his obvious impatience to be rid of me, I was shocked he knew my name. “Aye. Sarah McCulloch.”
He gestured for me to hurry up.
“Oh.” You can do this, Sarah! “Um … May I come in?”
Raising an eyebrow, Mr. Cavendish leaned against his door, arms crossed over his chest. The pose caused his slim but muscular biceps to flex. “Wishing to follow in the boss’s footsteps, my love, and bag yourself a member?” He referred to Aria Howard, the estate manager, who’d recently gotten engaged to the Scottish actor North Hunter.
The sneer in Cavendish’s words sparked my ire. That’s what people seemed to think of me. Some pitiful creature that scuttled around Ardnoch, crushing on the male celebrities. A good percentage of those members were entitled arseholes who weren’t worth a damn. Theodore Cavendish was the last person I’d ever crush on. I had a crush on his brain. That was it. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He pushed off the doorjamb. “Then why are you?”
Do it! I licked my lips again, looked him straight in the eye, and stated, “We have business to discuss, Mr. Cavendish.”
I’d shocked him. And intrigued him. That gave me courage. “Well?” I gestured to his room.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he waved me inside. “This I have to hear.”
Forcing my feet one step in front of the other, I smoothed a hand down my housekeeping tunic. Tonight was the last night I’d ever wear this uniform. Clutching my handbag strap, I forced my grip to loosen. My nails had probably left crescents in my skin.
Licking my lips nervously again, I stared out the large window of the bedroom suite, watching the rain lash the pane, wondering if I could have this entire conversation with my back to Cavendish.
He cleared his throat, indicating that wasn’t going to happen.
Turning, I squared my shoulders and decided to go for it without overthinking. “I’m about to tell you something that very few people are aware of, and I must ask for your discretion, no matter the outcome of our conversation.”
He shot me another amused look as he crossed the room to sit on the end of the bed. Leaning back on his hands, I ignored the visual feast he’d created with the unconsciously inviting pose. “Good God, little mouse, have you killed someone and need a partner to bury the body?”
I frowned at the horrendous pet name that brought back terrible memories. “Please don’t call me little mouse.”
Cavendish huffed. “Yet no denial of murder. Should I be worried? Is there really a corpse somewhere decaying as we speak?”
“Well, considering I only committed the murder an hour ago, I very much doubt it’s decaying just yet.”
For a moment, Cavendish blinked at me warily. Then he let out another huff of air. “You almost had me there, little mouse.”
Scowling at his continued use of the pet name that spiked the ire in my blood, I decided to push through the indignation and get to the point. “I want to write a screenplay with you.”
Something like disappointment tightened his features. “Of course you do.” He moved to get off the bed, his body language turning dismissive in an instant. The man was more temperamental than the Highland weather, unpredictable and quickly changeable.
“No.” I stepped forward to explain. “I mean, I want to write a screenplay with you for the adaptation of my book series.” Tilting my chin back in defiance of any coming ridicule, I continued, “I write under a pen name. No one knows but my cousin. My grandfather knew too …” I drifted off, still unable to talk about losing him. “I write a thriller series about a detective inspector called Juno McLeod.” Opening my handbag, I pulled out the paperback copy of book one, Hollow Grave, and held it out to him.