Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 183663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 918(@200wpm)___ 735(@250wpm)___ 612(@300wpm)
I’d begun to feel a little scared myself when Allie had hung up and explained the only risk I’d be in on the long walk back was standing in sheep poop.
Then she’s added probably.
But I’m pleased I’m not walking these dark, lonely lanes. There no paths and so few streetlights. As I glance gratefully over at Cooper, I feel a little sorry for him. It’s such a small car for such a tall guy, too. He must be so uncomfortable. But his discomfort is soon shared as we begin bumping along a road that makes me wish I’d tightened my bra straps. Thankfully, I can see the outlines of the castle looming darkly against the sky.
“I’ve never been on this road before.”
“It’s a shortcut. Do you want to be dropped at the cottages or the front?”
“Do you know where the kitchen is?”
“Aye, I used to work for the local fruit and veg shop. It’s where I made the deliveries.”
The tyres crackle against gravel as Cooper pulls into the courtyard, the whole place lighting up.
“Security lights,” I mumble, shielding my eyes as I step from the car. But bright lights aren’t my only issue because it seems as though the alcoholic iced teas have made me drunk, but only from the feet up.
“Hang on,” Cooper calls, unfolding himself from his tiny car as I stumble. “You haven’t been drinkin’ zombies, have you?”
“Zombies?” I look up. He must be at least six-two, and in pretty cute, if you’re into the man-bun and skinny jeans look.
“Aye. She made me one or five last weekend.” He lifts my hand over his shoulder, pressing himself to my side, his hand supporting me at the waist. Seriously, I’m not that drunk but we’re already on the move. “Last time, I walked out of the pub like the livin’ dead. Woke the next morning feeling like it, too.”
“Well, it was Long Island Iced Teas pour moi. That’s French for—”
“Bringing home guests.”
At the sound of Alexander’s voice, a series of pleasurable explosions begin to bounce around my insides. When I lift my head, the outline of his body fills the door.
“Hey, your grace!” I add a wave to accompany my thoroughly improper form of address, then tighten my grip on Cooper’s from where it has loosened at my waist.
“This is Cooper. Coop, say hi to the duke of Dalforth.”
“Hello?” he answers uncertainly, unwrapping my arm from over his shoulder.
“Cooper?” Alexander drawls. “Were your parents fond of barrels?” His gaze flicks over him impassively, but I can hear the tension in his words. Oh, my God, he thinks—
Oh, this is brilliant! I cackle internally. I can’t have him, I can’t keep him, but I can totally make him jealous.
It feels like one of those times where . . . I just want to see what I can get away with!
“I don’t think so,” Cooper answers with a puzzled frown. That totally went over his head. Maybe someone should explain how coopers make barrels.
But maybe not right now. I’m having too much fun!
“Can we come in?” I ask, smiling up at the grump. We. Ba-ha! “You’re kind of blocking the door.”
Alexander’s gaze drops to my dimple, then my mouth. His frown deepens as he steps to the side. But Copper isn’t really about to follow me into the kitchen. Whatever. I’m still digging the fact that it bothers him.
“I’ll, erm, be off then.” Cooper takes a step back and risks a small side-to-side wave. Or maybe that was more a “woah, not me, man” or whatever the Scottish equivalent of that is.
“Okay,” I sing-song. “Thanks for everything.” I just about stop myself from yelling, I’ll be sure to leave you a good rating! because I am enjoying this more than I should as I saunter (very slightly wobble?) into the kitchen. A chair at the head of the long pine table is pushed back, an open bottle of whisky and a glass sitting on the table in front of it. “Dalmore,” I read aloud as I pick the bottle up. “Can I have some?”
I try not to shiver as I feel him behind me, his arm reaching around me to take it from my hand. As his touch skims my waist, heat bursts against my skin like wildfire.
“I’d say you’ve already had enough.” Whisky-scented want, his words are soft against my cheek as he sets the bottle back and curls his fingers in the neck of my jacket. He slides it from my shoulders in a move that’s more practical than seductive, but I shiver anyway. Then I watch as his hand curls around the back of the farmhouse chair in front of me. We just stand there for a beat, his arm a whisper away from wrapping around me. But it doesn’t happen.
I turn, tilting my chin to look at up him.