Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Henry’s mind has been spinning over the mystery girl since we got back to the safety of our home. We have no information to go on other than the name she gave to security when they asked her why she was loitering. Violet, she said it was, but who knows if that’s true. Henry demanded the security footage. We watched as the girl sat in the lobby for four hours, her foot tapping the marble floor, her fingernails probably bitten down to the quick for how often they ended up between her teeth. She got up and headed for the door at least a dozen times before returning to her seat, as if struggling with her decision to come here in the first place.
“The way she was dressed … You don’t think she was homeless, do you?”
I chuckle. “No, she’s just a teenager.”
“She looked scared.”
“A lot was going on. Security guards, reporters. And it’s you she was coming to see.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what it means.” The indomitable Henry Wolf, who fills a room just by stepping into it.
He smirks because he does know.
“Maybe she’ll come back.” I press my lips against Henry’s shoulder.
“I could send her picture to Dyson to see what he can dig up.” He makes a sound, as if disagreeing with his idea. “Likely nothing, unless she’s a criminal.”
“If she’s Scott’s daughter, then it’s in her blood,” I mutter, but then mentally chastise myself. It’s not her fault she got the short end as far as fathers go.
He snorts, but the frown marring his handsome face won’t relent. “Why would she come here?”
CHAPTER 3
I wake to my phone vibrating on the nightstand. I paw for it—torn between answering the call and shutting it off.
“My dear Abigail! Congratulations!” Margo’s seductive Parisian accent curls around my eardrum.
“Hmm? For what?” I blink at the alarm clock. Nine a.m., which means it’s midafternoon in Paris.
“Your engagement to Henry has made Page Six!”
The way she says Henry’s name—the H silent—always makes me smile. “Already?”
“Oui. I am sending it to you now. Un moment.”
With a soft, sleepy moan, I roll onto my back and stretch. The other side of the bed is empty. I’m not surprised that Henry is already up and gone. He was tossing and turning all night. I doubt he got any sleep. Still, it disappoints me. I didn’t get enough time alone with him before rejoining reality.
My phone jolts with an incoming text and I read the headline:
Exclusive: Henry Wolf Survives Alaskan Mine Collapse and Proposes to His Assistant
“Ugh. Ex-assistant!” Several screenshots appear and they’re full of pictures of the two of us—some as recent as last night, through the glass of Wolf Tower’s lobby doors—and others taken weeks ago at William Wolf’s funeral. There’s even one of us from that dreaded night of Wolf Cove’s grand opening in early summer when I was so sure Henry was cheating on me.
“Does it say how they found out?” They’ve made a point of drawing a red circle around my hand with an added arrow pointing at my left ring finger, but it’s impossible to see the ring.
“How they always find out. ‘An anonymous source close to the family.’”
That could be anyone from a fellow churchgoer to Lucy from the feed store with the way my mother’s lips have surely been flapping since yesterday morning. “What else does it say?”
“That you are to marry in that barn of yours.”
Damn it, Mama. “We are not getting married in Greenbank.”
“Well, I must say that is a relief. It is a cute barn on a cute farm, but you two are meant for something far grander. Maybe my place? It could be the unveiling of Wolf Hotel’s newest boutique hotel, if your fiancé would commit to me already.”
I laugh. Margo is nothing if not relentless about her dream to turn her family’s old French castle into a Wolf chain hotel. “We’re getting married in Alaska next spring, before the hotel opens for the season.” The most important place in the world to Henry and now to me.
She makes an exasperated sound. “I suppose that place will also do. Now, if you are to marry in spring, that does not leave Emmanuelle Agard much time. We will meet with her when she is in New York in a few weeks.”
“Emmanuelle Agard? Who is that?”
Margo’s laughter fills my ear. “Oh, my sweet Abigail. You are precious. She is only one of the most sought-after dress designers in the world. She must be booked at least three years in advance and only takes on a handful of clients each year. It is a good thing that one of your dearest friends is also one of her dearest friends.”
“You don’t have to pull strings for me.”
“Too late. They are already pulled! She has agreed to make you the most beautiful dress of the year. Un pièce de résistance. Far too nice to get married in the woods with wild animals, if you ask me, but nobody is.”