Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 615(@200wpm)___ 492(@250wpm)___ 410(@300wpm)
Along the way, my definition of “all” evolved. It meant relying only on myself, no more risks to my heart. I would go after what I wanted, safe in the knowledge that I’d get it. I’d played it safe because I kept a part of me locked away. And that part of me has slowly withered.
Life is risky now. Uncertain.
I don’t know if I’ll get what I want. And I don’t like that. But I’m done playing it safe.
Muttering, I shove myself upright and push my hair back from my face. Stella and Sophie will march up here and sit on me if I don’t get moving. Besides, Stella is the best out of all of us at reading people’s needs. And while I selfishly ran and hid away in my room for the night, she’s trying to help Killian by having us all there for him. I know my cousin. He’ll grump and bitch, but he truly feels better when his friends are around him.
Ashamed that I didn’t think of this first, I crawl out of bed and slip on a black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of pink flannel pants with black French poodles dancing across them. It’s the closest I have to pj’s, and frankly, I’m tired of dressing up. Having stayed here many times and knowing how cold the floors can get, I have a pair of slippers on hand. I put them on and head downstairs.
As in many old English homes, the kitchen is located on the ground floor and away from the main rooms. The corridor is narrow and fairly dim. I’m not going to say I believe in ghosts or anything, but I’ve never felt any desire to linger in the hallways down here.
Hurrying around the corner, I nearly collide with Rye. His hands automatically grasp my arms to steady me, but he doesn’t let go. With the warm light of the kitchen barely touching us, he’s a shadowy figure, but I feel every inch of him, even with a foot of space separating us. He’s showered, his skin fragrant with the rosemary lemon soap they provide here. It’s never smelled so good. I have to restrain myself from burrowing my nose into the center of his chest.
“Bren,” he says, pulling me out of my scent-induced lust. “We need to talk.”
The dull, almost pained strain in his voice sends alarm skittering down my spine. His expression is serious, hard, even. “Bren, I—”
Killian’s annoyed mutter echoes from down the hall, and I jerk back, knowing he’ll round the corner any second.
“Okay. But not here,” I whisper, glancing toward the sound of Killian’s voice. “Not now.” What I have to say isn’t for my cousin’s ears.
Rye grimaces, his brows knitting. Killian’s voice is closer, complaining loudly about cold-ass floors. The familiar gripe makes me smile despite myself. I touch Rye’s forearm, trying to reassure him and find it rock-hard with tension. He turns his head, checking the hall.
“Better go,” he says, stepping back to put space between us.
Flustered, I slip into the kitchen without another word. I expect Rye to follow, but he doesn’t.
Like the rest of the rooms in Varg Hall, the kitchen is super-sized. But with its wide plank, worn-oak floorboards, sage-green cabinetry, lime-washed plaster walls, and the great big masonry fireplace, it’s also cozy.
Whip is feeding kindling into the growing fire as I walk past. I ruffle his hair and then take a seat midway down the old pine farm table that stretches like a felled tree in the center of the room. Scottie, who sits opposite me and one chair down, grunts in greeting then sets his phone with the baby monitor app playing on the table. He’s wearing ice-blue Dolce & Gabbana silk pajamas.
My lips twitch. “Sophie got you those, didn’t she?”
There is a certain model featured in a Dolce & Gabbana perfume ad campaign that could be Scottie’s twin. We’re never allowed to speak of it or him. But Sophie likes living dangerously. That, and she has her man twisted around her clever little fingers.
A dark brow wings up as he sniffs. “Early Christmas present.” His steady stare dares me to say anything.
I smile blandly. “I have just the cologne to go with that. Light Blue, I believe it’s called.”
Jax snickers as he sets a mug of cocoa down before me. His idea of pj’s consists of soft gray drawstring pants and a ratty green Henley. Scottie eyes it with annoyance, clearly feeling he’s been punked by having to wear actual pajamas.
But before he can complain, Sophie bounds over swathed in matching pj’s with an ice-blue silk robe trimmed in white feathers. “Isn’t this cute?” She kicks up a silk-clad leg and shows off little white feathered slipper mules with kitten heels. “I feel like some ‘30s Christmas starlet.”
With her platinum-blond bob floating around her face in a silvery cloud and her lips done up in fiery red, she certainly looks the part.