Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
His appearance at the kitchen door takes my breath away. It’s like every time he leaves a room, my brain has some internal dialog where it tells itself he can’t possibly smell like fresh pine needles or make my insides turn to molten lava when he looks at me. I must be imagining the way he listens to me like I’m the most fascinating person he’s ever met.
And then Zach reappears in an epic facepalm to my brain because he’s just the man I thought he was.
He scoops me into his arms and presses a kiss on my head.
“I’ve made truffle chicken, and apple pie for dessert,” I say, trying to ignore the buzz racing through my veins at his touch.
He releases me and scans the kitchen. “You did?” He inhales and groans, the vibration hitting straight between my thighs. “Shall I open some wine?”
“Absolutely. It’s my last night here. We should raise a glass to unexpected houseguests.”
“Your last night?” He pulls together his eyebrows in confusion.
“The snow’s cleared. You probably didn’t notice, but it’s been raining all day. There’s no snow left.”
“But it will all turn to ice.” He pulls out his phone and waves it around to see if he can get a signal.
I shake my head. “Nope, it’s going to be way above freezing tomorrow.” I managed to get enough connection to find the weather forecast at exactly eleven forty-four.
“Wow,” he says and I hand him two wineglasses to remind him that he’s on alcohol duty. “So you’re really going home?”
I dish up the truffle chicken and green beans and set them on the laid table. “I even picked us some new heather.” I don’t mention that I’ve kept a sprig of the heather he picked the night I discovered his manuscript. I’ve already hidden it away in the zip pocket of my suitcase. A little memento from the Isle of Rum. A keepsake from a thoughtful man. A memory of a wonderful trip.
He pours the wine in silence, places the glasses on the table next to our plates and takes a seat.
“Bon app.” I raise my glass and he clinks our glasses together, not taking his eyes from mine.
“Do you want to go home?” he asks.
“Well, I think my vagina could do with a break.” I grin and he ignores it.
“Because you could stay. If you wanted.”
Of course I’ve been thinking up reasons to stay. Excuses that would prevent me leaving. He won’t eat properly if I’m not here. He’ll get lonely. If he got sick, who would look after him?
“You want me to?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies casually as he cuts into his chicken. Then he meets my eye. “I’d like you to stay.”
My insides turn liquid and I bite back a grin.
“If you want to,” he adds.
His words clang in my ears like he’s dropped a roasting dish onto the wooden floor.
If I want to.
I’m not used to putting what I want to do first. I spent so many years as Shane’s manager—creating opportunities for him, organizing him, facilitating his easy life—that it became second nature to shroud what I wanted in what Shane wanted. I became adept at burying my needs and dreams, and watering and pruning his.
“If I stay…what…what would I do?” I say it out loud but I’m asking the question of myself. If I stay, I’ll spend my days cooking and cleaning for Zach while he works. Maybe I’ll go for a walk—but not with him. Perhaps I’ll pop into the village to buy more food, but what I’ll be doing is sitting around, watching. Waiting, while Zach pursues his goal of finishing his book.
I’ve done that before.
“There’s not much to do,” he says. “Except share food, a bed. Be. It’s not like there’s much back at Wimpole Street for you to do, either.”
He’s right—there’s not much to do back in London. Maybe I’m no worse off if I stay. I enjoy being with Zach, and maybe I won’t just be watering his dreams but our newly sprouted relationship. That wouldn’t be a bad thing. “I suppose I could stay.”
He grins. “Great.” His tone is light as if it’s no big deal if I stay or go. I suppose it doesn’t really matter to him.
A knot rises in my stomach. Something doesn’t feel right. Saying I’ll stay seems to be more than just spending more time in Scotland. Would I spend two more weeks here?
“If I was to leave…” I say the words carefully and take in his expression. I don’t want to upset him, but I’m not sure staying is the right thing to do. “Would it bother you?”
“Bother me?” he asks. There’s a beat of silence before he continues. “You should do what you want to do.” His words aren’t sharp, cut through with an undercurrent of accusation about me being selfish. “If you need to get back, then go.” He shrugs. “I enjoy your company.” He gestures at his plate. “Your food.” He holds my gaze. “Your body.”