Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
“We live in a grotesquely huge house.” Briar’s head twisted and turned to gulp up the stained glass and French balconies. The entire manor dripped of old-world money, and opulence, and the thin veneer of someone trying and failing to survive his sins. “But it doesn’t look like there’s a lot of staff here?”
“We’re private people.”
And by we I meant him.
But she wouldn’t meet him. They were going to live under the same roof, and she would never know.
“And we like to have sex everywhere, in odd hours,” I added, gesturing to the car-sized fountain, where water cascaded into a marble basin. The reflection of the crystal chandelier overhead glittered from the surface. “Too many potential lawsuits.”
“We sound feral.”
“I prefer the term madly in love.”
She paused in the game room, spinning the spare chair beside me. “And this is my chair?”
“Molded right for your ass cheeks.”
“Doesn’t seem like my style.”
“You went through a Star Wars phase.”
Actually, I did, cooped up in this place for long hours at a time, desperate to find a hobby again. But with the extent of her memories, she’d believe the truth even less.
We strolled down vaulted-ceiling halls, padded past oil portraits of Trio and Geezer in various historical costumes, and whizzed by the ballroom Romeo and Dallas used for their wedding, returning to the Grand Foyer.
“And that’s a wrap.” I clapped my hands together with a winning smile. “Two pools, one tennis court, a bocci court, and a home gym. Anything else you’d like to see?”
We’d already devoted a good hour to roaming the grounds, half of which she’d spent oohing and ahhing over the engineered roses and trying to feed an apple to Al Capony, who wielded a deep distrust of strangers.
He’s still mad you neutered him, I’d told her, mentally thanking Seb for forcing me to geld old Al.
“Yes.” Briar leaned against the wall beside the curved staircase and crossed her arms, peering beyond my shoulder. She jerked her chin toward the second floor. “The south wing.”
“What, this old thing?” I lurched my thumb over my shoulder, chuckling. “Nah, no need. It’s boring. Nothing to see there.”
“It’s got the biggest balcony, a direct view of the lake and some rowing boats.” Briar frowned. “There must be something there.”
That something would murder both of us if we treaded into his territory.
I blocked her path with my body. And I had a lot of fucking body. “That place is off limits.”
Briar pinned me with a searing glare. “What do you mean, off-limits?”
“Which part of the sentence did you not understand?” I enquired politely. I hadn’t realized her cognitive abilities had also been affected by the concussion.
“Let me clarify – I understand all of it and agree to none of it.” Her eyes thundered. “It’s my house, too. You can’t tell me where to go.”
Sweetheart, your house is a glorified porta potty with a curtain of beads partitioning your toilet and kitchen.
Another thing her house was? Nonexistent.
I’d broken her lease. There was no way I’d let her go back to that unsafe shithole. I still had no idea what she’d do once she regained her memory. I’d probably have to find her a new place. I hoped she wasn’t too proud to accept help, because buying her a nice house in a safe neighborhood would make me feel better about how we’d left things off.
“The south wing is not to be entered, Briar.”
She parked her balled fists on her waist. “Why?”
I closed my eyes. Drew in a breath. Decided to go for some version of the truth. “I have a dark side.”
“Is this about the butt plugs I saw in the car? Because if so, I’m totally not judging.”
“I said I have a dark side, not an awesome side. Pay attention.”
She scowled. “What’s the secret?”
“It’s private.”
“I’m your freaking fiancée.”
Shit. Right.
“I’m, um, a …” Serial killer? Art thief? The grim reaper? “… hoarder.”
Yes. Truly the best I could come up with. What can I say? Up until now, I’d never lived in a straight-to-cable romantic comedy where everything – including absolutely everything – went wrong.
Briar’s eyes squinted into two suspicious slits. She obviously believed me a little less than she believed Santa was capable of sliding in and out of chimneys all night, on all seven continents, and still managed to be a jolly motherfucker.
“Let me through.”
“It’s madness over there. I’m talking mountains of reuseable bags, empty Costco cardboards, newspapers from the sixties, my used toilet paper collection …”
She angled her head sideways. “You have a used toilet paper collection?”
“What can I say? The heart wants what it wants.” And in my case, apparently it wanted bacteria. “Look, you can’t see my shit.”
“I am your future wife. I’m sure I’ve seen your literal shit once or twice. Men are notorious for forgetting to flush. I do remember that. I had the displeasure of living in a coed dorm during college.” Her eyes widened, lighting up. “Oh, God, Ollie, I just remembered.” She slapped her own mouth. “I went to Baylor.”