Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“You’re the one who said it was a bad idea, Duchess,” I said. My voice sounded rough, like I’d already spent hours begging him out loud instead of just in my mind.
“Did I?” He shrugged. “Well, then. I was right. And it’s Dr. Rogers to you. Goodbye, Mr. Riggs.” He turned to make his way back to the party, but I could have sworn I heard him murmur something under his breath that sounded like, “Be safe.”
I stared after him until the butler coughed discreetly behind me and gestured toward the front door. It wasn’t until I was halfway back to the shitty rental house I shared with Hux that I finally screamed my fucking head off and slammed my hand on the steering wheel enough to bruise my damned palm.
How could I have gotten things so wrong?
And how the hell was I going to make it right?
18
Carter
After nearly a week without seeing Riggs, I was happy to report that I was doing fine.
Just fine.
Terribly, terribly fine.
I was firmly in control of my life—or, okay, that was a total lie, but I was in control of the important bits, at least—and that was exactly what I wanted.
Autumn leaves glistened wetly on the pavement as I pulled up the driveway of—sweet Jesus, it hurt my brain to even think the words—my new twenty-acre, eighteen-thousand square-foot home located halfway between Licking Thicket and Great Nuthatch.
Weirdly enough, the redbrick colonial with its massive white columns, second-floor balconies, and black shutters had started to feel like home in the week since I’d returned from Venezuela.
Of course, the fact that my grandfather had packed up all my belongings and given notice to my landlord while I was away—“so you wouldn’t be bothered with it, son, and no need to thank me”—probably had a lot to do with that.
So did the fact that my grandfather and Kev were in residence for at least a few more weeks, since Grandfather claimed he’d joined several Licking Thicket social clubs while I was gone that required his attendance, and Kev was overseeing the conversion of the second floor of the northeast wing into the geek cave of his dreams, complete with “dedicated fiber-optic lines” and “multiple redundancies.” Whatever that meant.
It also didn’t hurt that the manse was located just far enough out of town, and contained just enough rooms, that it was difficult for my grandfather or Kev or various, incredibly persistent residents of Licking Thicket to come and harass me as part of Project Cheer Carter Up.
I loved them all. I did. Including Tucker and… yes, okay, Dunn. But a man could only eat so many casseroles, and I didn’t want to talk about Venezuela or William Riggs. I didn’t want to be cheered up. I wanted to go back in time and stop myself from giving my heart to a guy who didn’t respect me, and barring that, I wanted to throw myself on the couch in the library to wallow in self-pity and full-sugar Coke.
The week since I’d seen Riggs felt like a year. And in my moments of wallowing, I vacillated between resolving to shove him out of my mind forever and obsessing about the frustrating man nonstop. How long would it take for me to put our unfortunate fling behind me and move on?
That seemed to be one thing I could not control, no matter how hard I tried.
I parked my Audi on the circular driveway out front and waved to my new security guard, John—a polite, balding, happily married, fifty-something guy Grandfather had insisted on hiring, just in case—to let him know I’d be home until it was time to go in for my next overnight shift. I dragged myself up the front steps through the early morning drizzle and let myself in. The place was so quiet, I could hear the big clock in the hall ticking, which meant Grandfather and Kev were still asleep.
Perfect.
I let myself into the library, closed and locked the door behind me, and immediately flopped down on the oversized couch, rubbing my tired eyes.
“Aragorn, play my Sad Songs of the Eighties playlist,” I instructed the house computer. Kev was fanatical about privacy and hated the idea of other companies listening in on our private conversations, so he’d created his own.
You know, as one does.
“Aragorn, stop!” Kev’s voice called out from one of the leather club chairs in the corner before Roxette managed to belt out the first note.
“Hey!” I protested, lifting my head. “What are you doing here?”
Kev was right. It was awful when people intruded on your privacy.
“I live here, remember? At least for now.” He stood up and walked over to my flopping couch, lifted my feet, and sat his ass back down on the end.
“Hmph.” It was a sad day when a man’s own flopping couch was taken over.