Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“I’m not sure I’ve ever really considered Her Majesty eating pizza.”
“Hmm.” I paused. “I bet she uses a knife and fork if she does. I bet that makes a right mess if it’s a stuffed crust. Mozzarella stuffed wouldn’t be too bad, but sometimes the marinara pizza sauce just spurts right out.”
Max blinked at me.
“Do you think she has to pay for dry cleaning the furniture if that happens?”
“I’m going to assume the Royals have in-house dry cleaning available to them,” he replied slowly. “Your brain is a mess, do you know that?”
“It’s my brain. What do you think?”
“I think you seriously underestimate how crazy it is.”
“You might be right. Think of it as self-preservation.” I licked a bit of sauce from my finger and closed my box. “It’s getting dark. Should we make sure the goats are locked away now or are you not finished?”
Max nodded and shut his box, too. “I’m done. Come on. Let’s take you to see the goats for one last time.”
The finality of those words hurt a little, but I swallowed it back and got up, following him through the stupidly big house to the back mudroom where my wellington boots were apparently living.
“Why are my boots here?”
“You brought them here and left them,” he replied without batting an eyelid. “I didn’t even realise until earlier.”
“Oh. That’s convenient. I didn’t really want to get my flip-flops muddy.”
“I still can’t believe you thought flip-flops were an acceptable footwear to visit goats with.”
“They’re the only shoes I have unpacked,” I admitted, slipping my feet into the Muck Boots I loved so much. “My feet hurt if I wear shoes driving long distances, so I was just going to slide them off tomorrow as soon as I got in the car.” I shrugged and wriggled my toes inside the boots. “Are we ready to go?”
“Let’s go.” Max opened the door, and a slight chill flew in on a breeze. He turned back to me. “Do you want to wear one of my coats? Your cardigan isn’t very thick.”
I looked down at the thinly woven cardigan I was wearing. “Maybe that’s a good idea.”
With a chuckle, he pulled a think puffer jacket from one of the hooks and handed it to me. “There. That should do this.”
“It’s bloody huge,” I said, slipping my arms into it. It comfortably covered my bum and the top couple inches of thigh. The only good thing was that it was large enough to not be too tight around my body—an issue I’d had in my last relationship.
You know. Back in the Stone Age when I’d last dated.
Max shot me a grin before we headed outside, and I wrapped my arms around my waist. There really was a chill in the air, the kind that warned you that summer was rapidly coming to close and letting autumn take its place. Combined with the slight nudge of the sky darkening a little earlier, it was somewhat of a shock to the system.
It was definitely colder in the North.
Max’s gaze flitted to me when I shivered. “Are you really cold?”
“Little bit,” I mumbled.
“Bloody southerners.”
“Bloody northerners acting like they’re better than anyone else because they can hack it a few degrees colder,” I shot back. “At least we southerners know what to call a bread roll. None of this ‘barm’ shit.”
“Hey,” he replied, holding up a hand. “It’s not my fault we sometimes let you think you’re right.”
I snorted. “Please. The last time I had this argument with a northerner, she did everything in her power to convince me I was wrong.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was a proof-reader who was filling in for my usual one while she was on maternity. We even had a video call to argue the toss until I pointed out that I didn’t much care what she called a bread roll; my characters lived in Dorset and nobody in Dorset would call a bread roll a barm cake. Fucking barm cake. Honestly. What utter nonsense.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide his laugh. “So we shouldn’t discuss the proper way to make scones, then.”
“My nan is from Devon. Absolutely not. She’d haunt me.”
“Noted.” Not bothering to hide his laugh, he hit the outdoor light switch for the barn and pushed the door open. All but one of the goats were inside, so Max grabbed the torch from the shelf and went hunting outside for the rebel.
“Hello,” I cooed softly, going over to the girls first. Goatie Hawn and Selena Goatmez trotted over expectantly, and I reached out to scratch their noses. Vincent van Goat was not amused that I didn’t have any food, judging by the fact he didn’t come over for any kind of loving.
That was fine by me.
If he couldn’t take me at my scritches, he wasn’t getting me at my treats.