Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
I give the plush rabbit I’m holding a squeeze, pressing it to my chest for a moment. I have no doubt there are a million nanny cams in Primrose Cottage, but all they would see is the new nanny holding on to the stuffed rabbit before giving it to the princess. They don’t see that the rabbit gives me comfort too.
I reluctantly place the rabbit in the crib with Madeline, who is finally fast asleep, and smile, then take in a deep breath and steady my nerves. It’s funny how free and real I always feel when I’m with the children in my care, but the moment I have to step away, the mask slides back on my face. I’ve only been working for the Duke and Duchess of Fairfax for a week, and while everything seems to have gone well, I’m eternally aware that with one slipup I could lose my job. Every time I start a new position I walk on eggshells for months, and with a high-profile role such as this one, the feeling is tenfold. Even though the Fairfaxes have been gone most of the week, traveling in the US for charity work, I know I have to uphold a good image in front of the rest of the staff. I guess I’m fortunate, in a way, that my bosses are gone my first week at work—I’ve always worked better without constant supervision or micromanaging—but to me that means I have to try even harder to act like I deserve this job, like this is a test of sorts.
You’re doing good, I remind myself as I pick up the baby monitor and step into the hallway, closing the door until it’s almost shut. Lately I’ve been trying to counter every negative thought that pops up with something encouraging, but in my brain it’s always easier to believe the negative.
I turn around and run right into someone tall and solid.
A scream dies in my throat as the person reaches out and grabs my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” a man says in a Scottish accent, and in the dimly lit hallway, it takes me a moment to realize this is James, one of Duke Eddie’s bodyguards. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He lets go of me, and I take a step back, pressing my hand against my chest.
“I didn’t even hear you,” I say, trying to calm my heart.
“Side effect of the job,” he says in a light voice.
I’ve seen James before with the duke, but obviously when he’s working there’s no time for small talk. When he’s on duty he’s all brooding and stone-faced, but now that I see him close up, I realize he’s not as serious as I first thought. There’s a small scar running up the side of his face, drawing attention to his dark brown eyes, with a seductive slant. His full lips curl into a slow smile, and I notice how lush they are, his teeth perfectly straight and white.
“You always work so late?” he asks, his accent giving him a deep, raspy voice, the kind of voice that tickles some pleasure spot at the back of my brain.
“She doesn’t know the meaning of bedtime,” I tell him. “I think she misses her mother.”
He nods and leans casually against the wall, the tie tucked under his tailored jacket and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. The jacket is unbuttoned, like he started undressing on the way to the servants’ quarters, his shift over.
“But the later she goes to bed, the more she sleeps through the night,” I admit, and he smiles, a bright smile that makes the dim hallway flicker a little.
“I’m James,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m afraid we haven’t had a chance to be properly introduced.”
“Laila,” I tell him, reaching out, and he grasps my hand in his. His hand is warm and his grip is strong, not enough to cause me any distress but enough to hint at what he’s capable of. I catch a whiff of his cologne and it’s earthy, woodsy, like the pine forests of my childhood.
Damn. I knew he was good-looking already; I mean, there’s something about a bodyguard and the way they prowl and protect with utmost confidence that would make the most cynical person swoon, not to mention I’m a sucker for a guy with brooding dark looks, which I blame on an early obsession with Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre (who, in hindsight, is a bit of a problematic hero, but hey, we like what we like).
He lets go of my hand and nods down the hall. “Walk you home?”
I find myself biting my lip in coy response and nod. “Sure.”
My goodness, what the hell has come over me? I think back to my pep talk before I stepped into the hallway, the mantra I’ve been repeating to myself: You’re doing good, don’t mess it up (translation: the last thing I need to do is look all googly-eyed and hormonal the moment a handsome guy shows up in my life, especially if I’m working and living alongside said handsome guy).