Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Still, I never thought I’d find myself at the same venue as a member of the royal family. Like it’s a totally normal thing to do.
“I’m surprised he’s showing his face in public,” remarks Yvonne, who stands on the other side of Celeste. Nate was here a moment ago, though we barely said hello before Yvonne sent him off to get her a drink. “Only last week, he was all over the Mail getting into his car with that Alisha woman from Eurovision.”
I lift a brow. “Isn’t he married?”
“Exactly.” Yvonne huffs. “And he had the nerve to deny it like we didn’t all see it with our own eyes. He’s a prick.”
The girls turn their attention back to the match. I attempt to as well, but it isn’t long before my vision once again becomes a blur of horse legs and mallets. I give up. Polo is the sport equivalent of gibberish.
I poke Celeste in the arm. “How are things going with Roberto?”
She slides her sunglasses down and follows as the teams charge past us down the field. “Yeah, good. He travels a lot, so he’s out of town this week. These were his tickets to the match, actually.”
“Thank him for me then. I’m not sure I’m following, but it’s fun.”
“Lee told me about your painting. Any luck identifying the mystery woman?”
“Yes, Abbey.” Yvonne leans in. “I hear you’ve got a secret Tulley. Naughty lot, that family.”
So I keep hearing. But most of the available information I’ve found on the Tulley clan is about its current members. My findings on the Tulleys of the WWII era thus far are limited to the duke and duchess, and there’s very little about their children or extended family.
“I found a small art museum in Rye, where the artist is from,” I tell the girls. “So I’m hoping they’ll have more information about him and maybe his subjects. I’m taking the train out there tomorrow.”
“Nate’s from East Sussex,” Yvonne says as he arrives with her champagne.
He hands her the flute, then drags a hand through his tousled hair. “What’s that?”
“Abbey is hunting an artist in Rye. Weren’t you headed that way to see your mum and dad tomorrow?”
He casts his gaze at me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. About my outfit, my hair, and whether I’d worn enough sunscreen or turned a hideous shade of cooked while outdoors. The knee-length green dress I’d chosen for today seemed modest when I slipped it on, but when Nate’s dark eyes rest briefly on my bare legs, I suddenly feel like it’s way too short. Nate, meanwhile, manages effortless indifference, somehow pulling off wearing only a fitted T-shirt and jeans as if we’re all ridiculous for trying so hard.
His hair falls across his face. It isn’t eighties-rock-star long but not close-cropped either. Just deliciously messy and curling slightly at his nape. I become obsessed with the way a strand sticks to his eyelashes.
“You want a lift, Abbey?” he asks.
I’m not entirely sure I haven’t hallucinated the offer until Celeste nudges me with her elbow. “Manners, darling.”
I blush. “Yeah, sure.” My tone is all no big deal. I get rides from gorgeous men on the regular. Nothing to see here. “If it’s no bother.”
“Not at all. I’ll pick you up first thing.” He pushes hair out of his eyes, then grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when I’m on my way tomorrow.”
My gaze flicks toward Yvonne, but she’s gone back to watching the match, unfazed that her boyfriend asked for my number. I pose absolutely no threat to her.
She’s got Nate fetching her champagne after all.
“Are you coming too?” I ask her.
The crowd suddenly erupts in cheers as someone apparently scores. Yvonne claps against her glass, careful not to jostle her drink, before glancing over at me.
“No, I’ve things to do,” she says, smiling. “But good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Okay, yeah, cool. A two-hour ride alone with Nate and his hair. That’s fine. That’s totally fine.
Shit.
I’m up and dressed early Sunday morning when I come downstairs. I received a text from Nate about fifteen minutes ago, informing me he’ll be here in forty minutes. Which gives me another, oh, twenty-five minutes to battle my growing anxiety and hope it doesn’t turn into a full-blown panic attack.
I know this isn’t a date.
But it still sort of feels like one.
Jack is at the counter when I walk into the kitchen. “Morning,” he greets me.
“Morning.” I tentatively shuffle past him toward the pantry for some cereal and pretend he’s not shirtless. That his biceps aren’t rippling as he uses a wooden spoon to mix pancake batter.
It got me rock hard.
Those rough whispered words have been haunting me for more than a week now. They’ve also become the soundtrack to my Hot Jack fantasies, which I like to alternate with my Broody Nate fantasies. The number of orgasms I’ve had while thinking of those two might be a cause for concern.