Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
“Are they?” She—Fern—sounded genuinely upset at the prospect, as she stared down at her plate of coquilles St Jacques. “I’m so sorry, you must have received a bad one. Why don’t we get you a new—”
“Mine’s rubbery too,” the other one sneered, before pushing her plate aside in disdain.
“Oh. I—I’ll ask Chef to fix…”
“The scallops are perfect.” James Hawthorne’s gruff voice interrupted abruptly, surprising Cade somewhat. His father rarely championed anyone. He preferred gutsiness, people who could stand up for themselves. Fern Lambert—seemingly fragile and vulnerable—appeared to be the family doormat. And James Hawthorne had no patience or respect for doormats.
Cade—even though his appetite had disappeared at the sight of her—forced himself to pick up his fork and take a nibble as well.
“Mine are great too,” he said, mostly in the hopes of getting her to finally look at him. He was rewarded with the slightest of head tilts and brief flicker of her eyes in his direction. He glowered over at the two women seated across from him, before stating firmly. “You must have received a couple of bad scallops.”
Cade was the one who nodded at a nearby server to disappear their plates and replace them with fresh scallops. The man obeyed without question, but Cade could swear he caught the glimmer of a smile on the server’s stoic face. If nothing else, Fern Lambert appeared to have the affection and respect of the staff here.
Abernathy, oblivious to—or more likely uncaring of—the seething tension around the table tucked into his entree with gusto and regaled them with the story of how he’d nabbed his award-winning chef away from at least three other extremely wealthy interested parties.
God, he was a tedious blowhard.
As the dreadful meal progressed, Cade remained acutely aware of the woman in the chair beside his. She hadn’t spoken since the entree course, and none of her family members paid any attention to her either. Instead, she kept her gaze fixated on the food in front of her, and studiously ignored both Cade and his father.
His brain was seething, as he thought back to the night they’d met and tried to recall what about her had initially grabbed his attention. Had she deliberately sought him out? No, he’d approached her. But had she done something subtle to catch his eye? He’d been intrigued by the way she’d shied from the limelight. He’d liked that… had appreciated it. It had been idiosyncratic enough to make him want to know more about her.
But had she known he would react that way? Was this all some elaborate ruse hatched by Abernathy to somehow fuck up this deal? He couldn’t figure it out. And didn’t like feeling like he’d been manipulated. And seeing her here this weekend was too much of a coincidence to be anything but deliberate.
But to what end?
His gaze was boring holes into her skin. She’d hoped to speak with him before dinner. Had hated to simply appear because she knew how it must look to him. Her stepfather was… he wasn’t a good man and he was known for using every weapon in his arsenal to get his way. Fern wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Cade Hawthorne now considered her one of those weapons and would be wary around her and suspicious of her motivations. It would make her own mission that much harder to accomplish, but she had to try.
Meeting his eyes, trying to convey her lack of deceit in some way would help, but now that she was in the same room with him, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She found sitting this close to him—smelling him, feeling his body heat—distracting and disturbing. And she knew she really needed to get it together if she wanted to make this work and present her case in a straightforward, appealing manner.
Dinner passed in an uncomfortable blur. She excused herself before they’d finished dessert, escaping to the kitchen to ensure the staff had the clean-up in hand. She knew she didn’t have to check; they’d done this hundreds of times before, they knew what was expected of them. They didn’t need her. But she’d been unable to sit there a moment longer.
Now she stood in the kitchen, arms folded over her chest, sensible shoes kicked off, while she leaned against a cabinet, eyes shut, and let the soothing bustle and noise of the kitchen flow over and around her.
She was comfortable here.
After her mother’s death, it had become her refuge during school holidays. These people were her friends—her real family—and she could trust them enough to relax around them.
Someone—she wasn’t sure who—pressed a mug of warm milk into her hands and she stood with her hands wrapped around the ceramic, relishing the way the warmth seeped in through her cold fingers.
They left her alone, not speaking to her, knowing that she needed time to recover from the ordeal that passed as a family dinner around here. Whenever she was at this house, she ate with the staff, running the dinners smoothly from behind the scenes, but occasionally Granger liked to trot her out in front of the guests like some prized pony. Reminding them what a wonderful man he was to take care of Fern and her business interests.