Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 120838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 604(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 403(@300wpm)
Damn.
That got to me too.
Because, how could it not?
He took his hands from my mouth and wrists so he could frame my face with both of them.
“It’s miraculous what ye made of yourself, darling,” he said tenderly. “You were given no foothold at all, but ye found a way to climb out of the pit she tossed you in anyway. And that’s amazing.”
“You don’t have to do this, Dair,” I said shakily. “I’ll call Kenna in a few days and tell her it’s all good. It’s for the best. You need someone who knows how to love. I don’t know how to do that.”
Now Dair was staring at me.
This went on a while.
So long, I requested, “Um, if I ask nice, will you get off me?”
“No.”
I glared again.
“Ye dinnae ken how to love?” he asked.
“Well,”—I flipped out a freed hand—“obviously.”
“Obviously?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” I demanded.
“Until you start making sense, aye.”
“Dair—”
“Ye took care of everything for your sister’s wedding.”
“You should know, I had a wedding planner for mine, and I treated her like shit too.”
Dair ignored me. “You made Marlo feel welcome in your family, for her, but mostly for your dad because you adore him.”
“That wasn’t hard. She’s—”
“Nora dropped everything to come out and plan your mother’s funeral. All your friends dropped everything to be there for you.”
“They were there for Alex.”
“The G-Force wasn’t there for her.”
This was true.
Hmm.
Dair wasn’t finished lecturing.
“And Alex isn’t the new Marchioness of Norton. Alex didnae have important people she had to impress with hymn choices and floral arrangements. Aye, they were there for Alex, and they were there for you.”
I decided to stop speaking.
“Ye looked after my mum in Arizona after all that happened with Dad. You were pissed on my behalf when ye thought Dad or Signe upset me.” He paused, considered me, then asked, “Am I getting through to you at all?”
“You’re crushing me.”
In one lithe movement (bloody athletes), he rolled off and to his feet, and he offered me his hand.
I ignored it and tried to get up myself.
My back spasmed, and the pain was so bad, I fell to my ass in the wet leaves, which made the pain worse.
“Babe, take my hand,” he ordered.
I tried to get up on my own again and winced.
He instantly crouched down beside me.
“Are ye hurt?”
“Why, yes, Dair,” I snapped. “A huge man chased me through a forest and tackled me to the leaves.”
He grinned.
Stupid Dair.
“Know my tackle didnae hurt ye, lassie. I ken my tackles.”
“Well, on top of jarring my back when I tripped, it—”
I said no more because he frowned, then, before I could blink, I was up in his arms.
Good Lord.
This was worse!
“Put me down!” I shouted, wriggling in his hold as he started walking through the woods.
“Stop moving or you’ll hurt yourself more.”
“Dair, put me down this instant,” I demanded.
“Hot bath. Some ibuprofen. And a stiff whisky will do ye,” he decreed.
What he didn’t do was put me down.
I went limp in his arms and asked the tree canopy. “Why? Why did you forsake me?”
“Ye need to give up those heels, lassie. They’re fucking up your back.”
That earned him the glare to end all glares.
“I am never giving up my heels. I’ll be a hundred and five and toddling around on my heels.”
“Then we best stock up on ibuprofen.” He paused. “And whisky.”
“Or, say, you don’t chase me across the English countryside and tackle me to the forest floor,” I suggested sarcastically.
His arms gave me a slight squeeze and he muttered, “Aye. That probably didnae help.”
“You think?”
“Hear this, love,” he said, still walking, “ye can try to run around the world to get away from me. I let you slip through my fingers once. That’s not going to happen again. I’ll grab hold any way I can.” His eyes came down to me. “So dinnae run next time.”
“You’re the worst,” I declared.
“Aye,” he said softly. “But you love me.”
I looked away.
“She loves me,” he whispered.
He was intolerable.
Not long later, the house started to come into view, and if I had my bearings correct, I’d been all of maybe twenty feet from seeing it.
Ugh.
“You wearing a poncho?” Dair asked like he’d just noticed it.
“It’s a Max Mara raincoat with poncho-like detailing,” I corrected.
His grin returned. “My Blake in a poncho.”
“It isn’t a poncho. It’s a Max Mara raincoat with poncho detailing,” I repeated.
“It’s a poncho, love.”
Argh!
Treverton fully formed, and with it came the sight of Christine outside, wearing a thin puffer coat and, for some housekeeper reason, wringing a dishtowel.
When she caught sight of us, she rushed forward.
“Oh my goodness, is she hurt?”
There went my English aristocrat street cred.
“She took a tumble,” Dair told her.
“That’s a nice way of saying, he tackled me,” I added.
Christine’s eyes grew wide.
Dair chimed in again. “She needs a hot bath, with salts if ye got them, a generous tumbler of whisky and a bottle of ibuprofen,” Dair said.