Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
It’s been five days since our wedding, and this is the first time I’ve felt anything close to peace.
The sewing room is tucked away on the second floor, flooded with afternoon sunlight that makes the dust motes dance like tiny golden stars. According to Clarice, the head housekeeper, this was Gavine’s mother’s favorite room. She died giving birth to him, but apparently she was an accomplished seamstress who dreamed of making quilts for all her future children.
The tragedy of that hits me every time I sit at her machine. All those hopes and dreams, cut short.
But I can’t deny how perfectly her workspace suits me. Bolts of fabric line the walls in rainbow order, and her collection of vintage buttons fills Mason jars on every shelf. It’s like stepping into a craft paradise I never dared dream of having.
For years, I squeezed my quilting supplies into a corner of my bedroom, working on tiny projects by lamplight after finishing my bookkeeping duties. Jessica always rolled her eyes at my “grandma hobby,” but here...here I can spread out. Create something beautiful without judgment.
Well, mostly without judgment.
I still feel like a fraud every time I pass the staff in the hallways. They’re all perfectly polite, of course, but I catch the whispers.
“The quiet wife.”
“Nothing like her sister.”
“Wonder what he sees in her.”
That last comment stung the most, probably because I wonder the same thing. They all expected Jessica: glamorous, confident Jessica who could light up a room just by walking into it. Instead they got me, the sister who prefers books to parties and blushes when anyone pays her too much attention.
I don’t blame them for being confused. I’m confused too.
Especially during breakfast.
I bite my lower lip, remembering this morning’s awkward meal. It’s become our only interaction each day, thirty minutes of strained silence in the formal dining room while we pretend to read our respective papers and avoid eye contact.
Except I’m terrible at the avoiding part.
Today, he was wearing a navy button-down that stretched across his broad shoulders in ways that made my mouth go dry. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms dusted with dark hair, and when he reached for his coffee cup, the fabric pulled tight across his chest.
I tried to focus on my eggs Benedict. Really, I did. But then he shifted in his chair, spreading his legs slightly to get comfortable, and my gaze drifted lower before I could stop myself.
The way his dress pants fitted across his thighs.
The suggestion of...of everything underneath that expensive fabric.
My face caught fire as I found myself wondering how large he might be.
How thick.
Whether he’d be gentle or demanding if he ever—
Oh my gosh, stop it this instant, Wednesday Marie Arthurs!
I jerked my attention back to my plate so fast I nearly knocked over my orange juice. But not before I noticed the way his jaw ticked, like he knew exactly where my thoughts had wandered.
The memory makes me press my thighs together now, that familiar ache building between my legs. Ever since that dream, my body has been betraying me at the most inappropriate moments. I’ll be folding laundry or arranging flowers, and suddenly I’m remembering dream-Gavine’s hands on my skin, his mouth doing things that make me flush from head to toe.
I’ve started taking cold showers twice a day just to function.
The sewing machine stutters as my hands shake slightly.
Focus, Wednesday. Think about something else. Anything else.
Like how I finally worked up the courage to ask about using this room.
“There’s a sewing machine upstairs,” I’d said during a particularly long stretch of silence, my voice barely above a whisper. “Clarice mentioned it belonged to your mother. Would it be...would it be all right if I used it sometimes?”
He’d gone completely still, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. For a moment, I thought he might refuse. His gray eyes had turned stormy, distant.
“Do whatever you want,” he’d said finally, his tone flat. “The room hasn’t been touched in years anyway.”
But when he thought I wasn’t looking, I caught him watching me with something that almost looked like curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out what kind of person asks permission to use a dead woman’s sewing machine.
The truth is, I don’t know either. I only know that being in this room, surrounded by fabric and possibilities, makes me feel less like a hostage and more like...like maybe I could build something here. Even if it’s temporary.
I finish the seam and hold up the book pouch, admiring the neat stitches. The emerald fabric will look perfect with gold thread for the quilted pattern. Maybe little vines and flowers, something delicate and—
“The security team ran those background checks you requested.”
The voice drifts up from somewhere below my window, and I freeze. That’s Gavine’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. He must be on the terrace directly beneath the sewing room.