Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 525(@200wpm)___ 420(@250wpm)___ 350(@300wpm)
Still, she didn’t stop, talking or walking, didn’t give me a chance to catch up.
She ushered me out of the kitchen, down a wide hallway—more photos on the walls—and past some closed doors. “Boring stuff,” she explained. “A study. Another bedroom. Laundry room...tick.” She opened the door at the end of the hall. “But this, this is the best part of the place.”
I would’ve choked on my champagne had I not swallowed before the door opened.
Walking in, there was another wall of windows, this one facing the mountain ranges. French doors opened onto a small patio area with wicker furniture and a fire pit. There were comfy-looking armchairs on either side of the doors, maybe designed to look at the view when it was too cold out. The four-poster bed faced the windows and was covered in luxurious throws, pillows and a beautiful comforter.
“There’s a walk-in closet, of course,” Harriet said. “Not huge, but doable. We can always get it extended...you know if things change.” She waggled her eyebrows meaningfully.
My stomach dropped again, but not like it had with Duke’s hands on my hips. This was like someone had cut it open, let all my insides spill out. Harriet was already planning on making changes in this place to accommodate me, after knowing me for only a couple days.
“The master bath is absolutely epic,” she continued, luckily turning her back on me so I didn’t have to perfect my mask.
That Harriet uttered the word ‘epic’ and somehow pulled it off didn’t even get through to me.
I was too busy trying to breathe through that stone that had come up from the bottom of my stomach to my throat.
Harriet was still saying things about the shower pressure, the bathtub, the shower, most likely cheeky things full of double entendre. I couldn’t enjoy them, though.
I was too busy standing in the middle of a beautiful bedroom that Duke’s family had designed and preserved for their son, with the hope that he would come back to them. Not only that, the hope that he would come back with a woman, with a family. I wasn’t blind to what those other rooms were…for Duke and a family. They had kept this because they had faith in their son.
Had hope.
And the happiness was pulsating through Harriet, through all of them, peppered with the sadness I was yet to understand. But it was because of me. Because I witnessed a murder and forced Duke back here. Forced him to create this lie that brought his family happiness and hope.
A lie that had an expiration date. One that would have Duke leaving once again, that would ensure that I would never come back to this place. Even though, inexplicably, I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to abandon everything in LA so I could live here—after two fucking days.
I was not an emotional person. That was hammered out of me quickly, cleanly and harshly in my childhood. But here I was, crying in the middle of a bedroom that would never be mine, for a man that already belonged to someone else—even if he hadn’t met her yet.
Of course, this was the moment that Duke walked into the bedroom, carrying the bags, his muscles taunting me with the way they bulged from the weight, his presence immediately sticking to me, clinging to me and embedding itself underneath my skin.
I tried to recover, there was no way I wanted him to see me like this, for him to have this part of me. But it was too late, he was far too observant.
He dumped the bags on the floor carelessly—something that should’ve pissed me off, considering they were all I had on this ranch to tether me to my previous life—and was in front of me in two strides. His hands cupped my face in a gesture that was far too intimate for this moment. For this situation. For this life.
“What, baby?” he demanded, searching me as if he’d missed a bullet or stab wound.
There it was again.
Baby.
The word was meant to be soft and comforting, but it scraped against my skin, drawing blood.
I tried to struggle from his grip, but he wasn’t about to let me.
“Stop calling me baby,” I hissed, mindful of Harriet still arranging things in the bathroom.
Amusement danced with his concern. “Not on your life.”
I scowled, angry that I couldn’t escape, couldn’t wipe away my tears.
“Tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, gentle this time.
I almost told him, almost spilled my emotional guts on these beautiful hardwood floors, almost confessed all sorts of things that I’d never told another human, almost told him about my feelings for him.
Almost.
“Not on your life,” I snapped, tilting my head up and thankfully escaping his grip.
“Duke, you’ve got champagne on the counter for when you finish with your task,” Harriet said, walking back into the room. Something moved in her eyes as she took us in, but thankfully her gaze flickered over to the abandoned bags. “Boy, you were raised better than to treat vintage Louis Vuitton luggage like that. Rectify your mistake immediately while us girls get tipsy.”