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)
“This is my mum’s bench, you know.”
Ellie stilled. “It is?”
Why had I said that? “Yes. We put it here on what would have been her fiftieth birthday.”
She shifted her body away from me and turned to look at the back of the bench and the plaque that was there. “In Loving Memory of Isabel Darlington,” she read out softly. “The Duchess of Windermere.” She met my eyes. “Is that your last name? Darlington?”
“Technically, it’s Windermere. My family has always used the ducal title as the surname where the situation warranted it, but I prefer to use Darlington for personal situations.”
“Is that your actual family name? Not related to the title?”
“No. It’s my mother’s family name.”
She tilted her head to the side, and I could almost see her brain whirring with indecision. She wanted to ask me why I preferred it. I braced myself for the question, but it didn’t come.
“Oh.” Ellie settled back against me, looking out at the water. “Okay.”
I peered down at the top of her head, but that was it. That was the end of it.
No questions.
Nothing about how she died.
Why I preferred her name.
Why I hadn’t mentioned my father.
She just… didn’t ask.
She’d wanted to. I’d seen it in her eyes. She couldn’t hide her emotions for the life of her, and her curiosity had burned a hole in my gaze for a moment.
But she hadn’t asked.
“Oh, my God. How did you get here?”
I jerked my attention in the direction of where she was looking, but I was already grinning, because I knew the ‘meow’ that responded. “Winston. Did she leave the door open again?”
“I did not!” Ellie swatted me and watched the mischievous cat as he pounced up onto the bench next to her and curled up into a ball. “Arsehole,” she muttered.
I chuckled.
“Do you have anywhere to be?” she asked in a gentle voice after a few moments.
“No. Do you?”
“No. Can we just sit here for a while?”
I rubbed my hand along her arm. “Yes. We can.”
And that was it.
That was the moment, sitting with her by the lake, staring out at the water, that I realised something I wasn’t ready to admit to myself.
That I wasn’t ready to accept.
That I wasn’t even going to whisper in my mind.
Because once I admitted that I was falling in love with Ellie Aarons, there would be no way back from it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLIE
Plot Holes
I tapped my finger against the table.
Writing in the library at Greygarth House was what dreams are made of. The shelves stretched up into the heavens, and the large windows let in just enough sunlight that it illuminated every inch of the room.
I could quite happily set up camp in here and never leave.
“I didn’t expect to see you in here.”
I turned at the sound of Fred’s voice. “Hi. Sorry. I’m not in your way, am I?”
“No, but I think I’m probably in yours.” He laughed and held up a laptop. “Mind if I join you? My emails are blowing up and this room has the best Internet in this place.”
“Go ahead. As long as you don’t talk too much.”
He mimed zipping his lips and sat down at the opposite end of the table to me. He opened his laptop and got stuck in, and I turned my attention back to mine.
Not that I was writing, mind you.
I was…
Dillydallying was probably the best phrase for it.
Yes.
I was dillydallying.
Not quite lollygagging, but I was getting there.
I was stuck. Totally stuck.
My editor had emailed me this morning with a note that I had a huge familial plot hole that I needed to figure out before I could go any further.
God, I hated plots.
This was the problem with being a pantser. If there was a plot hole, it was a pig to write your way out of. I had to create some kind of drama that meant the hero’s family didn’t talk to each other, and I wasn’t sure how to do that.
What kind of drama did aristocrats even have?
Trivial drama wouldn’t cut it. It had to be something deep and painful to everyone involved.
And I had no idea what it needed to be.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t get Max out of my head. Ever since he’d mentioned his mum’s bench yesterday, it was like something had changed between us. Almost as if that small action had knocked through one of his walls.
I didn’t want to think about what it meant.
I was a little scared of what it meant.
When we’d met, he’d been so closed off, so… almost cold, and he’d been unwilling to talk about anything. Yet he’d taken me to that bench. He’d said what it was. I hadn’t even noticed the memorial plaque until he’d pointed it out to me.
It had just left me with more questions than answers.
When had she died?
How had she died?