Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“Renewal,” Molly says, and I try not to crack my teeth as I clench my jaw.
“Let’s just call it works.” I try and keep my voice steady.
“Okay, let’s go with that,” Vincent says. “After all the works take place, this is how it will look. Obviously the brickwork on the house will all be cleaned. Experts tell us that hasn’t happened since the property was built in the seventeen thirties—”
“Seventeen twenty-eight,” I correct him.
“Yes, it hasn’t been cleaned since then. We’ve been told it’s amazing how well preserved it is, considering the lack of investment.”
Does brickwork need investment?
“All the paintwork will be refreshed. The windows will need to be restored. Many of them are rotting and letting in leaks, so we plan to commission new windows that are handmade with triple glazing to ensure it feels like a luxury hotel, but it’s also energy efficient.”
It sounds good, and Rio has mentioned a few times how the windows need work. “Will the windows look the same?”
“Just as it shows on the video. You won’t really be able to tell the difference.”
Our gazes meet and the angry fire I’ve been trying to stoke in my belly fizzles out. I don’t know if it’s because he’s giving me so much time or because he really does sound like he cares. Either way, I can feel myself melting.
The camera sweeps through the front doors—which I can’t help but notice are the original front doors, brought back to life—and into the entrance hall, converted into a hotel lobby. Not a detail has been missed in this video: fresh flowers adorn a large circular table at the bottom of the stairs, and a man and woman in matching navy blazers stand behind the reception desk.
The camera sweeps left into the library and focuses on the stained-glass windows Vincent pointed out earlier.
“The stained glass will be restored, as well as books and shelving. The floors will likely need to be replaced, although further due diligence is needed on that. We’re trying to keep as many original features as possible.”
The library is set up for afternoon tea with small duck-egg-blue sofas and chairs gathered around tables set with crisp white linen and glinting cutlery.
The books lining the shelves look warm and inviting. There is no doubt about it—the place looks beautiful. Granny, Sandra, Basil, Meghan—everyone from the estate will love it if this is how it turns out.
The newly restored staircase seems to gleam, as if proud of the fresh, moss-green stair carpet and bright portraits hanging on the walls.
Part of me hoped it was going to be a disaster—that Vincent would insist everything be whitewashed and modern, but the feel of the new place is traditional and familiar.
And lovely.
It’s still a hotel. It’s still not the Crompton you know, I remind myself. The warning has lost a bit of its edge in the face of this incredibly thoughtful presentation. What hasn’t lost any of its strength is the fear gripping my heart that this is more change than I will ever be able to cope with.
As the video continues, I actually feel myself willing the next frame to be better and, more often than not, it is. The spa looks incredible—like things I’ve seen on Instagram. The two pools are astonishing—simple and understated, but inviting and very luxurious. The indoor pool’s roof—which looks like a conservatory from the outside—makes it seem like a palace. The ballroom looks like something out of Bridgerton, and even the smallest bedroom looks fit for an earl.
The place looks revived.
Recovered.
Loved.
I close my eyes, willing myself not to cry. Not to panic.
“Kate?” Vincent asks, his voice soft.
I take a breath and open my eyes. He’s watching me. He looks at me wordlessly for a beat too long and then glances to Michael and Molly. “Leave us, please.”
For a moment I think he must be chucking me out, until Michael and Molly stand and file out of the door.
He didn’t shout. He wasn’t harsh when asking them to go. His voice was low and controlled and completely authoritative. And it was a whole lotta hot.
I mentally chastise myself for still finding this man attractive. So he has a great body and a nice smile. So he smells like rain-soaked pine and can silence a room just by entering it. So he can make me orgasm more in one night than all men had in the previous decade. So what?
He’s making me homeless-ish, throwing me back to my life before I knew how to be happy. There is no way I can allow myself to fancy him. My hormones better get a hold of themselves.
“How can I help?” he asks.
I shake my head because there’s nothing he can do. “It looks lovely.” I manage to croak out the words, twisting and turning my fingers in my lap. “Really.”