Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
He frowns and shakes his head. “No…”
“Probably too early if they just came out. We don’t always get the print copies straight away.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
He nods as he looks around the room. "Did you get what you came for?"
I nod. “Aye. Just need to grab a few things out of my locker.” The lockers are on the exact opposite side of the room. I need to get him away from here.
He frowns and nods, holds his arm out to me, and my heart does a little skip in my chest. I reach out and wrap my fingers around him. I swallow hard, willing my imagination to ignore the warm feel of his skin, the latent strength, the way my body responds when we touch.
“I almost finished the book," he says with a smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.
Uh oh.
I still feign nonchalance, but my heartbeat kicks up a notch.
"Oh, really? Any good?"
“Aye, bloody brilliant.” Heat floods my chest at the praise. I tell myself I’m not the author, that I may pen these books, but my alter ego is smart and witty and cheerful, nothing like the real me at all.
But I can’t help but be flattered by his praise.
He liked it.
“No way. Tate Cowen enjoyed a romance novel? What’s so good about it?”
He eyes me. “Thought you hated them. Why do you care?”
Someone gag me. Please.
I shrug, feigning a lot more nonchalance than I feel. “Don’t, really. Just curious is all. I mean, they’re romance novels, not the typical ones read by men. So I wanted to know what you like about it.”
“The story’s pretty gripping. The characterization is spot-on.” He snorts. “And oddly, it’s like reading a childhood memoir of mine.”
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
I look up at him sharply. “They’re romance novels, why on earth would you equate them with a childhood memoir?”
Smooth, Fran. Real smooth.
“I just mean that they remind me so much of my childhood, it feels like I’m there again.”
Is it my imagination, or is his voice… angry?
Why did I do this? Why?
My belly growls with hunger, and I feel a little dizzy again. I’m usually a pretty busy person with a really packed schedule, but it seems that even the few things we’ve done today have completely worn me out.
I need to throw him off the course, plant another seed. But something in the air between us crackles and sizzles, and my palms grow sweaty. I wipe them on my trousers.
“Well, glad you like them. Do you still think they’re written by someone you know?”
He sobers. “No question, lass.”
I frown. “You don’t think your sisters really would, do you?”
If it were one of them, they wouldn’t face the consequences that someone… like me would. Still, I feel shite for suggesting such a thing.
He shakes his head. “Not sure about anything right now.”
“Who else would it be?”
He scowls, as if really mulling it all over.
“Could be Nan.”
I snort. “Your grandmother definitely reads them and has nothing but dirty comments to make.”
“Aye,” he says with a wry smile. “Not surprised. Could also be my mum, but if they really are about us…”
I cringe. “God, scratch your sisters and mum off that list.”
He grimaces. “But my gran’s alright then?”
“Oh, ewwww,” I cringe. “No, it’s definitely not one of the family. But listen, Tate, it’s a bit ridiculous that you all think they’re about you anyway.” We open the back door and head to the car. “I mean… let’s be honest,” I say in a low tone, just above a whisper. “There’s more than one Scottish mob, isn’t there?”
“Of course,” he says, scowling.
“Then why can’t it be any one of them?”
“Because,” he says with finality, “I’m no bloody fool.”
Warning, my mind blares. Danger.
“Didn’t say you were—”
“She knows too much,” Tate says. So we’re back to “she?”
Danger!
“Still, could be—”
“She’s hinted at even more. And while you were in the doctor’s office, I read plenty more and can see now why Leith wants me to find the writer.”
“Oh? And why would that be?”
Does he notice the way my hand’s trembling, or how my voice shakes? Can he hear the rapid beating of my heart?
At this point, I half want him to find out, so we can move on from here. The questions between us are making me physically ill.
“She’s mentioned things we don’t know, as if she has an inside source.”
Why, why, did I keep them so realistic?
Why?
“Like what?”
He blows out a breath. “Like I’d tell you.”
“Why not? If it’s in the book, then anyone can read it.”
He opens the door for me, and I slide in, heart thudding in my chest so hard I feel nauseous. He goes to his side, brooding in silence when he returns.
“First, they’ve had one of my sisters sent off in an arranged marriage.”
I nod. I added that in because Islan told me it was a strong possibility, and also because she maybe just casually mentioned one day how hot the Welsh Captain was.