Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Maisy gasps.
I guess the big stick works sometimes.
“I’ll buy it. I’m enjoying the show too much,” Brock says. I give him a glare that could melt the paint off this car. “Or maybe I won’t.”
Maisy’s phone dings and she glances at the screen.
“There’s my cash! No more BS, I promise. I need pizza.” She grins. “Pleasure doin’ business with you, sis.” She tips a hat she isn’t wearing.
Ugh, this girl. How are we related again?
“In my next life, I’m going to be the youngest,” I say. “And I’ll make sure you’re my mother so I can turn you grey by thirty.”
Brock is still grinning beside me. Even when he’s being a dick, there’s no denying I love that.
“You two should be grateful you have each other. Being an only child sucks more.”
Maisy leans up in her seat. “See? Listen to him. Be grateful, Pippa.”
When I look up from the jousting, we’re on a private road, pulling up to a lush green hilly yard peeking out at us from the openings in a tall rod iron fence.
This isn’t a house.
It’s a freaking compound.
An old-school estate in every sense of the word.
Fyodor pulls up to a keypad with his window down, enters a code, and the gate swings open.
A minute later, we’re stepping out of the car in front of the most picturesque mansion I’ve ever seen, complete with crawling vines and palatial white modern vibes. There’s even the guesthouse behind it he mentioned, an acre or two away from this castle.
“Holy...” Maisy rubs her eyes.
She’s not the only one. I’m so awestruck I can’t blink.
“Problem, Sunshine?” he whispers.
“I’m just surprised. I always saw you as more of a sleek, urban penthouse kind of guy. More minimalist.”
He shrugs. “Too much time with my grandparents growing up. Guess their tastes rubbed off. My grandmother is an American country girl who always loved the rustic look.”
“I thought your grandparents were English?”
“Gramps, yes, but Grandma came from upstate New York originally. She’s half-English now though. Her accent is mostly English socialite and with a touch of pure Yankee,” he tells me.
Interesting.
Hearing about his family is a nice distraction from my own troubles.
We follow him toward the house while Fyo grabs the luggage. As he leads us through the yawning door, Maisy asks, “Has anyone ever gotten lost in here?”
I want to tell her to mind her manners, but honestly, I’m wondering the same thing.
This place looks more like an art museum or some kind of imposing government building than an actual home.
The floors are pure striped marble.
The ceilings might be fourteen feet high, and even taller in the entryway.
A crystal chandelier dangles in the foyer, a fusion of regal old-world glasswork and modern edges.
Then I hear it.
This high-pitched yelping noise—and it’s coming straight toward us.
Gah.
Surely he doesn’t have an ex-wife locked in the attic...
I scan the room, trying to find the source, just as the squealy sound spills into high-pitched barking.
“You have a dog?” I’m still surveying the room, questioning my own ears.
Brock claps his hands and whistles. “Andouille!”
Something clatters on the staircase.
There’s the distinct sound of little nails slapping the floor, and then more high-pitched barking as a long, fat sausage shape lumbers toward us.
I’m already laughing when the panting black-and-brown wiener dog comes bouncing off the last stair and slams into Brock’s leg. It’s definitely the biggest dachshund I’ve ever seen.
He bends over it and picks it up.
“Andy, you okay?” He strokes its head as a long pink tongue wags out and slurps his face. “You’re breathing hard again. Don’t tell me it’s time for the doctor again.”
The panting gets worse and the dog coughs a few times.
Andouille breaks into another happy bark a second later as Brock strokes the dog’s back.
If his goal was to slaughter me with cuteness, it’s a done deal.
“He has asthma,” Brock explains. “I have to be careful with him when he’s overly excited.”
“This cute little guy?” Maisy asks. “Awww!”
She reaches up to join in the round of petting, and so do I.
“I’m still caught up on the fact he has a wiener dog named after a sausage,” I say.
“He’s technically a doxador—mostly dachshund with a dash of lab mixed in.” Brock holds his head up. “My grandma thought I needed a friend when I got home from Afghanistan. Andouille came from a litter she raised herself in London. The puppy came home with me on a transatlantic flight.”
“Your grammy named him? I love it,” Maisy says, laughing as the dog licks her hand.
I look at Brock as a slow, tight smile appears in his halo of beard.
“No. The name was all me.”
Oh my God.
I can’t help giggling.
“Thank you for having us,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Even Maisy’s bad jokes are a decent distraction.”
“Sorry,” Maisy says. “I wouldn’t have teased you this much at home, but—” She stops mid-sentence and her face scrunches up. I can see her struggling for words.