Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
She says it with irritation, not horror. She’s not remotely surprised or bothered by the fact that I could commit such a crime. It’s simply the optics she’s worried about.
Everything for appearances.
“I’m right here.”
I whirl and find Abigail standing in the open doorway to my bedroom.
“You can’t be out here,” I say, gentling my tone when I address her. “Go back inside. I’ll handle this.”
The last thing I want is to subject her to the cruelty of my relatives. She’s already suffered so much at the hands of her own parents. I’ll shield her from mine.
My brave, stubborn Abigail lifts her chin and steps up beside me. She fixes my family with an imperious stare and takes my hand in hers.
“I’m with Dane willingly,” she asserts.
My heart skips a beat.
Last night, she gave herself to me willingly, but until this moment, I wasn’t sure of her loyalty. I wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t try to leave me again if she had the opportunity to be free of me.
I never intended to give her that choice, but I still didn’t know if she would challenge me over it.
“I’m sorry we came here unannounced.” Her voice is frosty as she continues to address my parents. She’s perfectly poised and icily polite. “We’ll leave now.”
“Wait just a minute!” Mum insists, bristling at the challenge. “My son isn’t going anywhere.” She looks at me again, eyes glittering with accusation. “Do you know how difficult it’s been to excuse your absence for all these years? To conceal our estrangement? You’ve come home, and now you’re staying.”
“You’re distressed,” Abigail remarks coolly. “I understand. It must be very difficult to have a son who hates you. Maybe you should go have that cup of tea while we pack. I’ve heard it’s good for the nerves.”
My mother’s face has gone beet red, and she splutters, “You… How dare… In my own home?”
“Americans.” My father spits out the word like a curse, a condemnation. “Bloody upstarts.”
“Yes, I’m sure we’ll all be happy to part ways,” Abigail continues smoothly. “Dane and I just need a few minutes to collect our things. Then we’ll be out of your hair.” She pointedly glances at my father’s balding head.
I grin. She’s good at this.
I lost my composure, and my fierce pet has come to my defense.
How could I ever deserve this woman?
“Come on.” James finally speaks up again. “Let’s have that cuppa. Now, mum.”
He gently grasps our mother’s shoulder and turns her away from me.
“Dad,” he calls back over his shoulder as they head for the stairs. “I’m sure there’s a bottle of whisky somewhere in the kitchen.”
The promise of alcohol moves him like nothing else. My father gives me one final contemptuous sneer. Then he turns and walks away, too.
I turn to my woman, my miracle, and trace the curve of her amethyst curl that fascinates me endlessly.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t have the words to express the depth of my gratitude, my admiration.
She waves off my thanks. “You’re welcome. They deserved it. Now, we need to get the hell out of here. Do you have your own car?”
I nod and trail her into the bedroom to pack. Wherever Abigail goes, I’ll follow.
22
ABIGAIL
“It’s so beautiful,” I gush, spinning in a circle to take in the stunning, historic city of York. “I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s magical.”
Dane is staring at me, not the imposing, centuries-old Minster. I’ve been studying the intricately carved masonry, and my fingers itch for my paintbrush. I’m not sure when I’ll have the opportunity to express this scene on my canvas, so I’m doing my best to commit it to memory.
“Yes,” he says softly. “I suppose it is a bit magical.”
“A bit?” I tease. “There are medieval buildings lining every cobbled street. It doesn’t seem real. It’s like we’ve stepped back into another time.”
His mouth tips in a lopsided smile that makes my heart flutter. “Is it?”
He gestures at the man who’s painted in purple from head-to-toe, trying his best to remain stationary on a bike.
I’ve seen better human statues, and I can’t suppress a giggle. Dane isn’t remotely impressed by the man.
I decide to include the street performer in my painting. The juxtaposition with the historic Minster is whimsical, charming. I’ll try to capture Dane’s expression of pure bafflement, too.
I loop my arm through his, steering us away from the spectacle. “You just don’t understand art.”
“That’s not art.”
“You have to open your mind,” I urge, but I’m only half-serious. Bantering with him is fun. “Anything can be art.”
He scoffs. “Now you’re just making up meaningless platitudes. There is no comparison between your work that that purple man.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” I shrug.
He pauses and urges me to face him. One dexterous hand brushes my hair back from my cheek. “There’s only one beautiful thing I see here.”