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)
I yawn, surprisingly well rested, and go over the events of the day before.
I told him everything. I told him I’m the writer, that there's another book coming, and that we're gonna have to get it out of the hands of my publisher. I told him I have spies, and that I have people that I work with, including the mob in Wales and another mob here in Scotland. I don't know what today's going to bring, because I just revealed one hell of a lot of baggage.
I almost bloody forgot about my head injury, until I go to sit up and the room spins. It’s less pronounced than it was before, though.
I’m hungry, achy, and emotionally distraught. I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders and tell myself it's nothing a good strong cup of coffee won't fix. I push myself out of bed, aware of the way that my ass aches from the punishment he gave me. Aware of the fact that I'm still naked, and my arm is still sore from the accident. I reach my fingers to my head, and wince when I feel a slight bruise.
God. I'm a fucking mess.
I'm not too keen on the idea of walking around stark naked, so I walk over to his dresser. Predictably, the T-shirts are neatly arranged in tight little packets, all folded and smelling slightly of clean laundry and man, a scent I quite enjoy.
I tug a gray tee out and snap it open. AC/DC. I smile to myself. Tate might be a feared mobster, but he’s got decent taste in music anyway. I tug the T-shirt on and start humming Highway to Hell as I head out to meet him. I’m not as lighthearted as I might seem, but sometimes you have to fake it to make it, and AC/DC’s good medicine.
Bailey trots over from the sofa to say hello to me when I walk out of the bedroom. I don't remember Bailey coming home with us, so maybe he trotted down to visit earlier this morning. What time is it, anyway?
I yawn again, so widely my eyes water. Groggy.
I pause before I go much further. From here, I have a vivid view of the snow-capped landscape outside this window, the early morning sun radiant and near-blinding. I spy a bird on a nearby tree and squint. I smile to myself. A crested tit, one of the fearless birds of the Highlands that doesn’t mind the brutal cold. They’re adorable, all gray and black with a little feathery tuft of feathers on top, a little bit of color against white. I can see Bailey’s paw prints leading to the front door.
“Mornin’.”
I look to the kitchen to see Tate smiling at me, a mug of steaming hot coffee in his hand as he leans a hip against the doorframe.
Oh, Lord, I was not prepared for this.
He’s wearing a faded tee and joggers, but is barefoot, his hair all tousled and messy, his voice still gravelly with sleep.
“Morning.” I feel suddenly shy, like I don’t know what to do with myself.
“I like the look of my T-shirt on you.”
I look down, as if I forgot I was wearing it.
I nod. “Didn’t want to walk around here naked…”
“But you will if I tell you to.”
A jolt of heat slashes across my chest. I nod tentatively. “Will I?”
“Och, aye, love.” He pushes off the doorframe and hands me the mug. “For you.”
“Thank you.”
I take it from him and sip, as he heads to the kitchen. It’s good and strong, laced with milk and plenty of sugar. I let out a pleased sigh.
“Delicious.”
“Glad you like it. Hungry?”
My stomach growls in response, and he looks over his shoulder, his lips quirked up at the edges. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m starving.”
He lifts a spatula and points it to one of the chairs by the kitchen table. “Sit.”
“Need some help?”
He shakes his head. “I need to come up with a plan with you.”
“Fran with a plan,” I say with a sigh. “On it.” I pull out a chair and sit down.
He doesn’t talk for long minutes, as he walks over to the large, stainless steel refrigerator and removes a few things. He arranges them on the counter and gives me a wicked smile.
“Sleep well?”
“Aye, thanks. You?”
He shrugs. “Not bad. Haven’t slept on the couch in ages, but it’ll do.”
Oh, ouch. That stings more than it should. So he did sleep on the couch after all.
“Why didn’t you sleep in bed with me?”
He turns the heat up under a frying pan. He doesn't answer right away, until the steam rises from the pan and he cracks an egg into it. It sizzles, and my stomach growls again.
"Didn't trust myself to sleep next to you. Had a raging fuckin’ hard on.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and the look that he's giving me right now makes heat rise in my belly. The way he says it… all possessive like that. “Needed some space between me and you, if I’m going to have any sense of professionalism whatsoever. "