Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
His smooth, pretty face crumpled. His mouth trembled, then drew tight; he sniffled, rubbing the back of his hand against his nose roughly and then abruptly turning away—but not before Brand caught the wet gleam of his eyes. Harrington’s shoulders were stiff, his breaths raspy, sound muffled as if he was trying to force it down. He had pride, then.
Pride, if nothing else.
At the very least, Brand understood pride.
He curled his hand against Harrington’s shoulder. “Direct me to the housekeeper. I will attend to what matters I can. Tomorrow, we may regroup to discuss a plan.”
That slim shoulder stiffened under his touch, before a hand knocked hard against his wrist, pushing it away. Harrington turned on him, cheeks wet, looking up at him with hard, flashing eyes.
“Don’t,” he bit off, voice choked. “Don’t you ever fucking pity me.” His throat worked, and he sniffled, looking away once more, glaring mutinously at the wall with his lower lip thrust out. “Fine. Tomorrow. You decide where we’re gonna sleep, I guess. But after this, I make the decisions.”
“Can you?” Brand challenged softly.
Harrington only fixed him with a furious, hateful look that did little to mask the hurt glimmering in his eyes.
The hurt, and a quiet, aching need—one that sparked something inside Brand, a pull like gravity.
But Harrington turned and walked away, leaving Brand alone in the cavernous, empty white hallway of smooth white stone and open archways.
Well.
That was an interesting reaction, indeed.
Brand lingered, leaning against the door of the room, tapping his thumb against his lower lip. He had his work cut out for him, he thought. He would start first thing in the morning.
For now, he supposed it was time to introduce himself to the staff.
One way or another, he would bring the Harrington household back into some semblance of order.
With or without his young Master’s cooperation, apparently.
CHAPTER TWO
ASH WASN’T USED TO WAKING before sunset.
Nor was he used to waking to the sound of drawers opening and closing, doors slamming, people moving around the pool house with shuffling footsteps and calling voices. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but every formless word drilled into his skull, stabbing through his eardrums into his throbbing, hungover brain.
He’d shut himself in the pool house with a bottle of champagne, last night. There were still two dozen bottles in the fridge, sitting there forlorn after his father’s collapse had cancelled a fundraiser soiree he’d meant to host…last night, Ash had realized as he’d sat on his bed in the middle of rumpled covers, stared bleakly out the night-locked window, and swilled bitterly at the bottle. Last night the grand hall of the house was meant to be decked out in lights and brilliance, people swirling about like scraps of pretty colored paper, while his father presided over them with his kindly smile and plied rich useless things with enough champagne to loosen their pocketbooks in the name of charity—while Ash eyed other young shiftless sons of powerful men, and wondered which he’d be making headlines with tonight.
Instead his father was lying in a bed dying, and that fucking will meant Ash couldn’t even be there with him.
He had to be here, instead. Holding everything together as if, if he did everything right, he’d keep everything from falling apart so it would be okay when his father came back.
As if, if he managed not to fail at this, he’d pass some test and his reward would be Calvin Harrington standing in front of him, hale and whole, a heavy hand resting to the top of Ashton’s head in warm approval because for once, somehow, he’d done something right and fixed this entire fucking mess.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. He’d meant to call for a car, go out, maybe hit a club, find one of his usuals who understood no strings but also understood the comfort of familiarity…but he only remembered champagne flavored by the taste of tears, the world swimming, blurring, until the lamps lining the garden pathway outside were just hazes of gold moving like foo-lights beckoning him into the dark. He’d muttered something under his breath about Forsythe being a fucking asshole, and then everything had gone dark.
Until everything was suddenly far too bright, as there came a sound of rustling curtains, curtain rings sliding, and then sunlight stabbing against the backs of his eyelids.
Swearing, Ash rolled over and buried his face into the pillows. “What in the fuck?” he mumbled groggily.
“Get up, young Master,” Brand Forsythe’s icy voice demanded. “Eight in the morning is late enough to lie abed.”
Ash tensed.
Oh, this asshole was so fired.
He creaked one eye open. His head throbbed, a sledgehammer symphony inside his skull, and the intrusion of morning light added a few sword stabs right into the center of his brain. He stared blearily at the blurry shapes moving through his field of vision—until he recognized the gardener and his crew, quite busy emptying the drawers lining one wall of the open, terraced space into boxes and carting them outside. What the fu—