Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
“Nope. Sorry. Wide awake now. Aren’t you lucky?”
“…that’s one word for it.”
But, Cillian thought, for all his snarling…
Brendan was still smiling.
And still holding his hand.
As a highway sign signaled an exit ahead, though, Brendan reclaimed both hands for the steering wheel as he merged them off the interstate at an exit marked Asherville. Not really any more enlightening than anything else, considering Cillian’s knowledge of U.S. geography was currently limited to Los Angeles, New York, and a very large area that was apparently called Texas and seemed to be full of cows, while everything else was somehow always Ohio. But the offramp took them down a smooth slope covered with pine and fir trees; the temperature was noticeably chillier than in Los Angeles, and Cillian tilted his face back and enjoyed the crisp breeze that made it a little easier to breathe.
When they passed through the actual town—just a gas station, a diner, a small grocery store, and a few scattered houses climbing up the steep slope of a hill—Brendan slowed, then took the Jeep off-road as a dirt trail with well-worn tire ruts branched off from the blacktop. Sun-dapples fell over them, filtered through overlapping needles of sharp-scented trees, and Cillian leaned over the side of the car, watching the branches pass by close enough to nearly kiss his nose, grinning when he glimpsed a rabbit in the brush.
The Jeep took the rather steep dirt trail easily, winding deeper into the forest and a little higher into the hills—but it petered out at a wall of thick trunks, disappearing into a small footpath that vanished into the trees.
Brendan parked the Jeep and cut the engine. “We walk from here. It’s only a few feet.”
“You realize now I’m wondering if I should leave bread crumbs.”
With a near-disgusted look, Brendan vaulted himself out of the Jeep and shouldered both his and Cillian’s bags, plucking them from the back. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not dragging you off to my sex cave. I’m too tired to spend all weekend eating you.”
“All…weekend…eating…Brendan!” Cillian gasped—but Brendan was already stepping onto the footpath, ducking into the trees.
“Might want to hurry up,” he called. “The coyotes won’t have as much restraint.”
“There are no coyotes out here!”
…were there?
Cillian cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, peering into the trees.
Then climbed quickly out of the Jeep, and trotted to catch up with Brendan.
The footpath cut through a little shadowed bower of trees, barely a dozen feet long—before it opened up into a secluded clearing, so thickly walled in by trunks on all sides it had been invisible from the dirt road. Tucked away in the clearing, a sunny yellow wooden cottage perched in the middle of a patch of bright grass, flowering plants overflowing in cascades from pots scattered all around the small paved front patio. With gabled windows and dark, glossed shutters in natural walnut tones, the cozy little house had a comfortable, quiet lived-in look, and Cillian frowned, edging closer to Brendan as he peeked up at the little porthole window in the upstairs attic/loft area, shadowed beneath the dark-shingled roof.
“Whose house is this…?”
“Mine,” Brendan said, and transferred both bags to one arm, fishing in his pocket to retrieve a keyring. “This is home.”
Cillian blinked, heart skipping. “I…I thought home was the apartment in L.A.”
“That’s just where I say when I’m working. It looks the way it’s supposed to look for who the world says I am. This?” Brendan fit the key to the lock and twisted. “This is where I actually live.”
“…oh,” Cillian said faintly.
Means to an end, he reminded himself.
But his hard-hammering heart wasn’t listening.
He drifted to follow Brendan inside—then froze at the threshold as Brendan’s voice drifted from deeper in. “Shoes off. Same house rule.”
“R-right.” Cillian toed out of his boots and set them next to Brendan’s dress shoes, then stepped in deeper, closing the door behind him.
The interior of the cottage was all honey-colored wood, a compact space with most of the lower floor open to create a combined living and dining space with minimalist, tasteful dark furniture and long windows letting in sunlight to pour over the vibrant green of vines flourishing on every windowsill. There was little in the living room other than a fireplace and shelves lined with books, tucked in the space underneath a narrow staircase leading up to a loft. The house had far fewer things than Brendan’s L.A. apartment…
…but it somehow felt more complete.
A smile tugged at Cillian’s lips as he followed Brendan into the living room. “I like it,” he said. “What do you do when you’re here?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Brendan said, and tossed their bags on a deep easy chair before dropping down onto the sofa. “Which is the point.”
“So is that why you brought me here?” Cillian stepped closer—until Brendan parted his knees to pull him in close with rough hands on his hips. “To do nothing?”