Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 233(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Out on the patio, the sandstone tiles are somehow magically clear of snow. Must be heated. Fancy. There's even a walkway of sorts, leading into the woods, and even though I'm in my impractical high-heeled boots, I feel like taking an easy hike. I head down the path, my hands tucked deep in pockets.
The snowy forest is beautiful–as flawless and magical as a landscape captured in a snow globe. I follow the path through the trees, frowning at nothing and no one, blowing smoke into the frosty air.
The path forks, and I head to the left, following ski tracks. My boot prints will help me find my way back. Rafe told me the owners of the mansion chose it because of easy access to a ski resort. Apparently they can ski to the lift and back.
After a few minutes of walking, I hear the whir of the ski lift and see the slopes angling down to the side. Wow, the ski mansion really does have a prime location.
In front of the lift is a warming lodge. It looks like a tea house, built out of red wood and rows of windows in a Japanese style. There are plenty of ski tracks leading up the stairs.
It looks so inviting I have to step inside. I push the door open and find a roaring fire with comfy chairs angled around it. The inside is even more charming. The air is toasty warm, my face thaws a little and my shoulders relax.
Everything in the place is ready to host an elaborate tea, including the sideboard holding a few tiered cookie holders filled with tea biscuits. In the center of the table is a stunningly elaborate copper teapot sitting atop a rounded bulb base. A samovar, used in places like Russian and Turkey. The teapot is hot, as if waiting for a guest to come take tea. I lean over the cunning contraception, sniffing the extra rich spiced brew.
Who heated the tea pot? The place is empty. There's no staff or any guests, only the ski tracks and a few boot prints leading up the steps and back down.
It would be wonderful to take tea here. It’s so warm, and everything is neat and cleverly designed in the small space. Beyond the windows, a few sparse snowflakes fall. I stand for a moment, taking it in.
“Oh hello,” a polite voice murmurs. “Are you here for tea as well?”
I whirl, taking in the tall man in a dark coat standing a few feet beyond the door. He’s wearing thick sunglasses that remind me of Stevie Wonder’s. Maybe he’s partially blind.
“Um.” I glance down at the table. It is set for tea. Duh, that’s why the samovar is heated and the tiered trays are filled with biscuits. “No, this isn’t for me…” my words die as he removes the sunglasses, revealing dark eyes and thick lashes.
My mouth falls open. The man is stunningly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose. His head is uncovered, and his dark hair shines under a light dusting of snow. He’s still standing outside of the tea house, down a few steps. It puts our heads at the same level.
“I, uh, I…” My cheeks heat. This must be a private rental, which means I’m intruding. “I just wanted to see the tea house. It looked so warm.”
“Yes, it is quite cold out. There is a bit of a snowfall at this moment.” His voice has a touch of an accent, but I can't place it. “Were you skiing?” he asks with a smile. His canines are a little pointed but his smile is charming.
“No, I'm staying in one of the houses nearby, actually.”
“Ah, then we are neighbors,” he exclaims. “Forgive me, I am new to the area. I have not met many people.”
“I'm only staying here temporarily,” I say. “At a home that belongs to friends of…my friend.” I suppose Rafe can still be considered a friend, when he’s not being an ass.
“My house is back there.” The man gives a casual wave in the direction beyond the trees. “But like you, I adore this tea house. As soon as I saw it, I said ‘I must have tea here.’”
“Yes, I don’t blame you. I feel the same way.” I should probably go and leave him to it, but before I can say this he nods to the table.
“Do you like the samovar? It is my own.”
“This is yours? It’s beautiful.”
“And the tea is ready. Chef Giampi is very proud of his creations.” He steps into the tea house, slowly unwinding his cream-colored scarf. He smells delicious, like expensive cologne. Although I prefer Rafe’s rugged good looks, woodsy scent and a day’s worth of scruff, I can still appreciate a gorgeous man when I see one. “Please, you must stay and have tea.” His voice rings out with that compelling command Rafe sometimes has, except his tone isn’t barky like Rafe’s—it’s silky.