Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Now I'm too hot. My heart’s beating faster, a flush spreading across my face like I've just been staring into an oven.
“Where are we going?” The driver has us whizzing down a road I don't recognize. The day has turned darker. Heavy gray clouds coat the sky.
“More snow is coming,” Royal says, not answering my question. “You shouldn't be out without a winter coat.”
The last of the adrenaline leaves my system, and my head droops. Something about his scent and the heat of his body makes me drowsy.
“I need to make sure that you're safe,” Royal’s murmuring above my head. “We're going to my place.”
My eyelids are heavy as I stare ahead. The windshield wipers work overtime, swiping away thick clumps of falling snow.
My head drops to his shoulder, and I wake out of my stupor with a jerk. I almost fell asleep on him. “I'm so sorry. I need to get back to Mr. Rossi.”
“I'm sending a doctor to his house.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I don't believe him. What real doctor would do a house call? “Did… Did Stefanos beat him up?”
“Yes.” Royal’s face turns to stone. “Or one of his men.”
I cuddle closer even though I should be terrified out of my mind. “I don't like this,” I whisper.
“I know, bella. But you needn't worry. I won’t allow any harm to come to you. Let me make sure that you're okay.”
“Okay.”
His dark eyes crinkle. “Okay,” he whispers back.
The sudden switch from cold to hot, the drain of adrenaline, Royal’s scent—it all combines, and I fall asleep leaning against his crisp Italian dress shirt.
When I wake, we’re in a hilly area outside of town. There are mansions here. A lot of them. Giant mix and match monstrosities built with no rhyme or reason into the side of the hill. We pass a Gothic Tudor style one with massive white marble statues dotting its lawn, then a Victorian style one covered in frantic gingerbread trim.
We leave the McMansions behind and head further up a mountain. Now the snowfall, which had thinned a bit, picks up speed. The driver must feel like he’s in a video game of some sort, with distracting white specks flying at his screen.
We turn down a long drive lined with a thick cedar hedge. A private road, but it’s better plowed than the public road before it. The SUV rolls between the hedges for what feels like a mile, and then we’re turning into a large circular driveway and pulling up in front of a real mansion built of solid brick.
“What is this place?” I breathe.
“This is my home. Come.” And he pulls me from the SUV.
3
I must still be in a dream-like state, because Royal guides me from the SUV into the house without me stopping to argue, freak out, or even worry all that much. I’m too in awe of the place, which looks more like a hotel for billionaires than a home—much less a young man like Royal’s home. How much do Dolce and Gabbana models make?
To my relief, the first place we enter is the kitchen. It’s huge and warm with rich Turkish rugs on the wooden floors. Very fancy. With two ovens, it’s bigger than the working space of Mr. Rossi’s bakery. The marble-topped island is bigger than my bed.
“This is beautiful,” I say.
“I thought you'd like it.” Royal’s lounging in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He’s still in his long-sleeved white shirt, which has dried just fine despite getting snowed on. His dimple is creased, as if he’s been smiling from watching me gape at his kitchen.
I shrug out of his coat, fold it, and set it on the island. Without the warmth and scent of the wool, I feel exposed. Even more unsure of what to do.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie, tangling my fingers together. “I’m wondering what I’m doing here.”
“I told you, I want you safe.”
The question hovers on my tongue for a moment before I find my bravery and blurt, “How do I know I’m safe with you?”
“Do you believe in fate?” he asks.
I stare at my fingers. I kinda do, but I don’t want to admit it. “No.”
“Right. You will.” He leaves the door frame and walks further into the kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure.”
“An espresso, perhaps?” Now I know he is amused by me.
I roll my eyes at him and he chuckles outright. He opens a cabinet, revealing a space-age-looking espresso machine built right into the wall, like a safe.
“Un latte, then. I will steam the milk.” He lets his finger dance over the buttons, turning the machine on and programming it with practiced ease. “Trust me.”
Trust me. For some reason, I do. Not only with coffee drinks.
The machine does its work, and Royal sets the tiny cup and saucer on the island next to me. But he must see my uncertainty because he comes close, crowding into my space. A Royal invasion, but I don’t hate it. I’m too busy drinking in his beauty and his scent.