Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He ignored her. So predictable.
Iris sighed and set aside her laptop—the writing had thankfully succeeded in distracting her from her circumstances—and rolled herself off the sofa, wincing with the movement. Her muscles were really starting to protest even the smallest of movements.
“Drink more fluids,” Mr. Unsolicited Advice offered begrudgingly. “It’ll help with the cramps.”
“I have been,” Iris said as she limped her way to the table where he still stood. He was as tense as a coiled spring and looked ready to bolt at any second. This was probably longer than he wanted to interact with her, which begged the question: Why was he still here?
Iris eyed the laden tray avariciously, her mouth flooding with saliva at the sight and smell of the generous portions of rustic meaty stew and home-baked bread.
“This looks and smells amazing,” Iris said, and her stomach growled in agreement. “You made it yourself?”
“You see anyone else around?” The words were short, his tone impatient, but Iris gave him a sanguine look that she knew would probably annoy him.
“I haven’t seen much of anything since I’ve been here. For all I know you could have a dozen guests and a full complement of house staff.”
“Up until you crash-landed on our doorstep, Luna and I were blissfully and happily alone.”
“Not even your bodyguard? That hot Aussie guy? That seems irresponsible.”
“Yeah, trust me, I have regrets about leaving him behind. Chance wouldn’t have let you come within a hundred yards of the house.”
“Why did you leave him behind?” she asked, tilting her head curiously as she watched him closely to gauge his reaction. As expected, his eyes immediately shuttered and his body went rigid.
“This was supposed to be a safe place.” The intense, resentful words spilled from his lips almost involuntarily. “A private place. But you fucking vultures keep tracking me down.”
Stung, Iris retreated into silence, not sure how to respond to that. There were those who argued that public figures couldn’t expect privacy, that they belonged to everyone, and—as such—their lives were diverting fodder for the greedy and entitled masses to feast on.
Iris had never been one of those people. She’d come here expecting a story, and admission into Trystan Abbott’s private sanctum and inner circle. But she’d believed that she had his explicit consent to step into his life and his spotlight for a short period of time. She would never have come here otherwise. And she hated that he believed that she had such a wanton disregard for his right to privacy.
“If you’d be willing to look at them,” she broached the subject tentatively, hoping he’d listen this time and not shut her down immediately as he had last time she’d brought up the subject. “Like I mentioned before, I do have correspondence between myself and Mr. Quinn.”
His already furled brow furrowed even more, and it was hard not to scurry away from such an impressive display of masculine outrage. She stood her ground though, so close to him that she was getting a crick in her neck from the height difference between them as she tried to maintain eye contact.
Shockingly, he was the one who looked away first. He took a couple of steps backward.
“Eat your lunch.”
Worrying at her lip with her teeth, Iris watched him retreat, disappointed that he hadn’t responded to her suggestion about the correspondence between her and Hunter Quinn. She tried to ignore the sound of the key in the lock, hoping that if she didn’t hear it she could trick herself into believing that it wasn’t locked.
But the sound of the key turning reverberated through her brain like a bullet shattering a silent night. Her shoulders tensed and she tried to distract herself with thoughts of her jailer.
She wondered about that scar—it looked pretty bad. How severe had his injuries been? Newspapers had only reported that he was in a stable condition. A few horribly invasive pictures had surfaced of him in hospital immediately after the accident. There had been others as well, of Trish Nesbitt, that had turned Iris’s stomach. She couldn’t understand how someone could have taken pictures like that. Evan had pored over those images with morbid curiosity, often trying to show them to Iris—who had literally gagged after one quick glance at a picture of the—clearly dead—woman. Her friend had then mocked Iris for having the wrong constitution for this job.
She shook her head and dragged a chair out from underneath the dining table before sitting down to have the meal provided for her. She found a Post-it note with the Wi-Fi password scribbled on it beneath the bread basket, and quickly signed into the Wi-Fi while she scarfed down the delicious meal.
Trystan Abbott was a good cook.
Who knew?
She sent quick apologies to her parents and Evan—who’d finally surfaced from her hangover—explaining that she’d been without Wi-Fi for a while.