Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Here we go, Tracy.” Bethany pointed, and I saw the beautiful bridge.
“It’s not a big deal,” Cord said, nuzzling my ear, covering me in goose bumps.
“It’s a huge deal,” I assured him, marveling at the backdrop of autumn. “This is amazing.”
“No,” Cord whispered, nibbling the side of my neck. “It’s you.”
I suddenly felt overwhelmed. Between the man at my side and the splendor outside, a bad day had turned into a wonderful one.
We passed the sign welcoming us to Fieldcrest, Vermont, population just below five thousand. The Alcott home was a Vermont log house with a saltbox roof, and it sat on twenty acres of rolling hills in lush green and orange. Once we got out of the car, I could see down toward town from the hill the house sat on.
The streets below were lined with sugar maples, there was a church with a high steeple, and I could see from one end of town to the other. In the Alcotts’ yard, I saw a gazebo out back, as well as a shack, which, I was informed, was for storing the maple syrup extracted from the trees on their property. I had never seen a more beautiful home, and I wondered how Breckin could have ever enjoyed life in my little fifteen-hundred-square-foot A-frame after coming from something so grand.
Cord bumped me, and when I looked into his eyes, I saw a glow in them as he smiled at me.
“What?”
“When we get back,” he said hoarsely, “will you let me sit on your couch in your sweet little house?”
How could he know I’d been thinking about what my house lacked? No way was Cord Nolan perceptive enough to know what I was thinking, and yet, somehow, he did. I couldn’t have stopped my lunge if my life had depended on it. I threw myself at him and wrapped my arms tight around his neck as I eased him down for a kiss.
It was fast—I didn’t ravish him, but I bit down gently and tugged on his bottom lip before I let him go. No one was paying any attention to us, too wrapped up in Breckin and Celia. It was nice. I liked that it felt like Cord and I were all alone.
“Is that a yes?” he prodded, his eyes sparkling as he eased back.
“That’s a yes.”
And my life, that had felt like an out-of-control roller coaster for days, suddenly slowed allowing me to breathe again. All because Cord Nolan had infused everything with just a bit of normalcy.
Mr. Alcott—“call me John”—offered me and Cord rooms at the house, but Cord explained that we had reservations at the bed-and-breakfast in town.
“We’re not all staying together?” Celia asked Cord.
“No. Chief Riley is sending an officer to stay here at the house with you and Breckin. Tracy and I will be at the Den of Antiquity off Main Street, which is apparently an excellent B and B as well as a top-notch antique shop for the serious aficionado of all things dated.”
I could not hold back the laughter. “The Den of Antiquity?”
He was trying not to smile. “Yep.”
“You made that up.”
He was smiling at me as he shook his head, stepped into my personal space, and took hold of my chin.
“Can we get a room together?” I asked breathlessly.
“Oh yes,” he promised, his voice low and silky.
I stifled a whimper as Michelle invited us all inside.
Their maid, Rita, seemed to have been waiting for us, and she welcomed Breckin home and then proffered a tray of spiced cider and hot chocolate. I wanted neither, but I thanked her for the offer.
“Oh,” I said, amazed when I stepped farther into the huge, stunning house.
John walked up beside me. “You like my home, Tracy?”
“I do, sir, very much.”
“Would you like the tour?”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, taking off my sunglasses and putting them in the pocket of my jacket, leaving on the chunky scarf and my wool beanie.
John was pleased to play tour guide; it was written all over his face.
I was the only one who went with him. We started one floor down, in the basement, which was finished, decked out with a library, offices for him and Michelle, a game room, a media room, and a mudroom that led out to a five-car heated garage.
“Your basement is bigger than my whole house.” I grinned at him.
We walked to the garage, and he pointed out the door to his wine cellar and his workshop, where he tinkered with brass and silver. He made wind chimes, which he sold on Etsy.
“Huh.”
“I’m crafty,” he teased me.
After that, we went up to the kitchen, and then moved into the great room, where everyone was now sitting.
“Tracy, I hope he’s not boring you to death,” Michelle said.
“Oh no, ma’am,” I assured her.
John showed me the wood-burning stove next, then the antique Revolutionary War musket that hung over the fireplace, before presenting his and Michelle’s enormous suite—opulent bedroom, a bathroom that would have made up half my house, and a closet that had a chaise in the middle so they could sit and put on their shoes.