Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
He doesn’t put on any airs or offer any greetings as I walk farther into the room. Instead, he watches me like a hawk as I cross in front of Cornelia and set the tray on the coffee table between them.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I offer, sending the words in Cornelia’s direction. They’re for her benefit, not his.
“Nonsense. I was only just greeting Nicky. He arrived from New York not long ago.”
“If I’d known, I would have brought another cup, but he’s welcome to mine,” I say, standing and stepping back from the table, preparing to leave them to it.
“You won’t stay and chat with us?” Cornelia asks, sounding unhappy with the idea.
“No. I’m sure you two want some time to catch up. I was hoping to find some time to read today anyway.”
“I don’t care for tea,” Nicholas says. “You might as well take it.”
What kindness! Someone—quick—commemorate it with a plaque!
“Actually, this works out well,” Cornelia says, nodding. “You two stay. I’m going to have a quick lie down as I feel more tired than usual today. I think it’s the heat starting to creep in. Summer has found us, I’m afraid.”
She stands and so does Nicholas, sharp and immediate, like a well-trained gentleman.
“No, no,” she says, batting him away. “You sit down and entertain Maren. She’s been running around all week, working herself to death, and I’d like you two to chat and get to know each other better.”
I peer at Nicholas and it’s clear she’s just given him something akin to a death sentence, yet he doesn’t leave.
I open my mouth to protest myself, but I realize it’ll go over better after Cornelia leaves. We just need to wait her out.
She steals a blueberry tart off the tray, shoots me a wink, and flutters out of the room, not looking half as tired as she claims to be.
Once she leaves and closes the door after her, I stay standing, and so does Nicholas. Clearly, neither one of us is sure how to proceed.
I start to talk at the same time he does.
“You don’t have to—”
“If you’d rather read—”
I laugh and shake my head, trying to break myself out of this shell of self-consciousness I’m trapped in any time I’m in his presence. It’s the most ridiculous thing. I start by looking at him while he walks over to a side table to pour himself a small shot of amber liquor from an antique decanter, and I convince myself he’s just a man. Tall and intimidating, sure, but no less mortal than the rest of us.
“Will this be a waste of time, do you think?” I ask, cutting through the bullshit. “If you’re standing there with the same opinion of me you had a few weeks ago, I’d rather save my breath.”
He laughs and tosses back the liquor before pouring himself another shot, this time sipping on it slowly as he turns to glance at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes hold me captive.
“Do you want a glass?” he offers, holding up his own.
“No thank you. I don’t drink hard liquor this early in the day.”
It’s meant as a barb, and he takes it as one. “I don’t either, except when I’m locked in a room with a feral cat.”
I narrow my eyes. “You see that’s rude, don’t you? You can’t expect me to like you when you say things like that.”
He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head, turning toward me fully as he makes his way back to his spot on the couch. “Yes, well, you struck first with the insinuation that I’m an alcoholic, so neither of us has clean hands here.”
I refuse to admit he has a point. Instead, I walk over to the side table to pour myself a small serving of the same liquor he’s drinking, realizing I might need it. It’s hardly a shot’s worth, but still, when I take the first small sip, I know I won’t be able to finish it.
“That’s horrible,” I hiss as it burns its way down my throat.
“It’s thirty-year-old single malt whiskey. My grandfather’s favorite.”
Good thing he can’t see the face I’m making or he might be insulted.
“Were you close with him?” I ask, venturing into polite conversation. We might as well try.
“Extremely. I spent more time with him and Cornelia than I did with my own parents.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” I ask, walking back across the room to take a seat on the couch facing his.
“Because, like you, I lost my mother and father when I was a young teenager.”
“How?” I frown and lean forward, curious to gather pieces of humaneness from a man who seems to have so little.
His reply is issued with a clipped tone. There’s no sentiment behind it. “Cancer took my mother when I was thirteen, and my father returned to England that same year.”