Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
That would go over like a lead balloon. The man was already cagey enough without me sticking my nose in his collar.
“Are we close?” I asked to distract myself.
“Yes.” He shot me a sidelong glance. “I apologize for falling asleep.”
“I have migraines from time to time. Sleep is the best thing for it.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re going to make me smile every time you hum, you know.”
Oh, but he drew so close to a smile just then. “And this is bad why?”
Did he know he was flirting? Did I?
It wasn’t smart, regardless. I would be here only for a while, and sleeping with the grandson of Granny Cynthia’s best friend was not only idiotic—it was asking for hurt. I didn’t do well with casual. And somehow I knew that Lucian wasn’t the type to stick. More likely, it would end with him avoiding me and me feeling like a fool.
Lost in thought, I almost missed when we turned off the highway, driving onto an extremely narrow road that wound through the countryside. I was suddenly glad I wasn’t driving this leg of the trip. It wouldn’t have done us any good if I got us lost while Lucian slept. I caught glimpses of the sparkling blue ocean through the trees. Here and there were rooftops of massive homes hidden behind gates. A lush and sunny Eden.
Lucian pulled up to a pair of wrought iron gates attached to an endless stretch of white stucco walls covered in wisteria and bougainvillea. A wrought iron arch spanned the gates, and the name Rosemont, done in gold letters, graced the middle.
“Welcome to Rosemont,” Lucian said without fanfare.
Under the shade of olive trees we drove up to the estate. We were going slow enough that I put down the window and let in the fresh air.
“God, I swear I smell lemons,” I said, taking a deep breath.
“You do. The estate has many different citrus trees.”
“Lemons remind me of happiness.”
“Happiness,” Lucian repeated, as though baffled.
“I don’t know how else to explain it.” I shrugged with a small laugh. “I smell lemons, and I feel happy. Hopeful.”
He grunted.
The road opened up to a circular driveway. The main house lay in graceful repose. Part italianate villa, part hacienda, and all California. Climbing red and pink roses undulated over cream stucco and wound around wrought iron railings.
“It’s utterly stunning,” I said, gaping.
“Yes, it is.” For once there was a softness in Lucian’s voice, but he didn’t look at the house. He parked, then looked at his phone. His mouth pinched as he read. “Mamie had to run an errand, but she’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Mamie?”
“Amalie. I call her Mamie. My term for grandmother.”
“That is so sweet.”
“You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?”
“It’s so easy. At least make me work for it.”
Lucian’s gaze tangled with mine, and my breath caught, heat simmering low in my belly as I thought about all the ways he could do just that. Maybe he thought the same, because those wintergreen eyes weren’t cold in the least. But then he blinked, and any hint of sensual teasing left him.
Without another word, he got out and started unloading my bags. I followed, but he shrugged off any attempt to help him with them. Honestly, it was a little impressive the way he handled four big suitcases without any apparent effort.
“You’re in the Cyrano,” he said, taking a winding garden path crowded with draping palms, lemon trees, and climbing bougainvillea.
“As in Cyrano de Bergerac?”
“That’s the one. Mamie likes to name the guesthouses after notable names in French literature. The Dumas is almost ready. Then I’m working on the Baudelaire.”
“Cyrano is one of my favorite characters.”
“It only extends to the name. Not the decor.” He stopped at a bungalow house that looked like a miniature of the big house. “Don’t expect busts of big-nosed men or anything.”
“Now I’m highly disappointed.”
“You’ll live.” Lucian led me inside. I loved the arched doorways, cloud-white stucco walls, and dark wooden beams. A set of tall french doors let in the golden California light.
“Bedroom is there.” He pointed toward a door off to the side of the cozy living room. “Bathroom is en suite. You’ll find towels and fresh linens there. Kitchen is fully stocked. And . . . what else?” Lucian scratched the back of his neck while surveying the little bungalow with a critical eye. “Oh, there’s a list of numbers for Amalie and the main house on the dining table.”
“It’s lovely, Lucian. Thank you.”
He grunted. As expected. I fought a smile. The man practically vibrated with the need to retreat. I suspected being stuck with a stranger for over an hour and suffering through a migraine had pushed him to his limit.
I set my purse down on a cute Spanish-style armchair. “Jet lag is getting to me. I think I’ll take a nap.”