Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Things were just calming down around here. Especially, though I hated to admit it, since Finn had convinced Griffen to change my schedule. Now that I was done with my workday at dinnertime, it felt like I had a normal life again.
Well, a normal life that included armed security and frequent murder attempts on various Sawyers, along with ongoing plumbing and electrical issues in the Manor. But that was all normal around here. Normal didn’t mean boring. And once Nicky and I were settled in the cottage, coasting for a while sounded just about right.
I didn’t want to date. Dating felt like work, but the idea of a booty call tugged at me. Interesting, but complicated. Who would I even call?
Finn! My body screamed in answer.
Oh, hell no.
Then I thought about the last really good orgasm I’d had. And it had not been of my own devices. Because that fucking kiss had been a hell of a lot more than just a kiss. My cheeks burned, but at least this time I didn’t have to worry. My mother wouldn’t suspect the flush on my cheeks. She’d think I was just embarrassed about talking about sex with my mother, which I was. Ridiculous, considering I was a grown woman, and so was she. I could talk about booty calls with my mother.
No, I could not. And I could not think about a booty call with Finn.
Sex with Finn was a terrible idea. Disastrous.
But is it? Is it really? He made you come in less than five minutes. No one’s ever done that before.
My body had definite opinions about Finn, and all of them were positive. Eager. Ugh.
My body could shut the hell up. The rest of me would have to handle the fallout from any bad decisions my body made, and I wasn’t up for that. I broke off another piece of cookie, determined to keep my brain firmly in charge of my hormones. It didn’t help that now my favorite cookie reminded me of Finn. I’d have to get over it. Finn was off the table, and I sure as hell wasn’t giving up my favorite cookie.
“Have you heard from Lydia?” my mother asked, changing the subject. Seconds before, I would have sworn I’d gladly talk about anything, as long as it wasn’t sex. Anything except my mother-in-law.
“Not in the last few days. I’m trying to ignore her.”
“Do you think that will work? I recall Lydia being very focused when she wants something.”
“So diplomatic,” I said into my teacup, avoiding my mother’s gaze. Very focused was a nice way to put it. Sighing, I set my teacup on the table. “What else can I do? I don’t want to let her into our lives, but she is Nicky’s grandmother. I feel like I owe her more than this, but then I remember how things ended, the things she said after Oliver died, and I can’t stand the idea of reaching out or letting her see Nicky.”
“Have you talked to Harvey about this?”
“No. I don’t need a lawyer,” I said.
My mother shook her head. “If she keeps pushing, and you don’t want to give her what she wants, you may need his insight.”
I nodded, hoping that would close the subject. It’s not that I thought she was wrong. I just didn’t want to go there. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. I guess I was hoping Lydia would find something else to fixate on and leave us alone. A likelihood that was becoming more and more improbable with every text. Fortunately, my mother knew when to leave something alone and changed the subject to one that didn’t make me want to run for the room with my hands over my ears.
“I forgot to tell you,” she said, “I brought over some things from my place I thought you might want in the cottage.”
“Really? I thought I got everything when we moved out.”
“You did. These are family things. A blanket your grandmother crocheted, that painting we bought at that flea market when you were little—you know, the one you like of the stream and the woods, and a few other bits and bobs.”
“Oh, Mom, are you sure?” I’d loved that painting the instant I saw it at the flea market when I was Nicky’s age, and I loved it still. In it, the familiar landscape of a mountain stream had appeared misty and full of dreams, straight out of a fairy tale. Hanging that painting in the cottage would make it home.
“Of course. I want you to take a little bit of home with you to your new place. I put the box in my car. We can get it when—”
“I’ll bring it over for you.” Finn’s voice cut in on my left, startling me. When had he come back into the room? Had he . . .? No, there was no way he’d heard our earlier conversation. Unless . . . Oh my god. Had he been lurking in the pantry or the scullery?