Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Iris’s mum stepped forward, placing a hand on her husband’s bony shoulder, to stop whatever he’d been about to say. She ran an assessing eye over Trystan’s frame.
“Robbie, stop gawking and give Mr. Abbott—”
“Trystan, please.”
“—Trystan, your waistcoat. And why are you still here? We told you to go home after cleaning up the kataifi.”
“Mum,” Robbie’s voice was filled with hushed protest while his awed gaze remained glued to Trystan’s face. “I can stay and help.”
“No. Trystan will take your spot,” she said implacably. Iris couldn’t tell what the other woman was thinking or feeling right now. But part of her knew that her mum had to be relishing this opportunity to put Trystan in his place. She’d made her feelings on the subject of Trystan Abbott clear on very many occasions. Even after his public apology.
Robbie, his face contorted into a bad-tempered scowl, dragged off his waistcoat and handed it over to Trystan. The teen was tall and lanky, and Iris was pretty sure the waistcoat would be too tight for Trystan, but he took it without hesitation.
“Thanks, Robbie. Nice to meet you, by the way. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Yeah?” For a second Robbie’s face lit up like a little boy’s—and he looked exactly like the adolescent he was, meeting one of his favorite movie stars—before it settled back into that familiar black scowl. “Well, you’re a dick and my sister is better off without you.”
Iris’s heart melted at the grumbled words, and she watched with a fond smile as—after slanting a slightly self-conscious glance at her—Robbie skulked off muttering a few choice profanities that she hoped for his sake their mother didn’t hear.
Trystan’s smile faded and he nodded, taking Robbie’s criticism on the chin, before shrugging into the waistcoat. As Iris had predicted, it was too tight, but he managed to get one straining button fastened.
“How many times am I going to have to tell you all to get back to work today?” Her father snapped at the staring, whispering staff. They all reluctantly returned to work.
“You,” her mother pointed at Chance with an authoritative finger. “You can have a seat over there. It’s out of the way but—since we can’t let this one out of the kitchen for fear of him being recognized—you can still do your job from there. Help yourself to some food.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chance said, in a twangy drawl that sounded remarkably like his best friend, Ty’s. He ambled over to the corner her mother had indicated, picking up a plate and loading it with food on the way.
“Iris,” her mother said, still in that no-nonsense voice. “Prep the champagne trays. The toasts will be starting after dessert. Trystan can help you.”
Iris nodded and made her way to the relatively quiet corner where the empty champagne flutes were waiting. She knew her mother had assigned this task to her and Trystan because it would afford them some privacy to talk while they worked. But Iris wasn’t sure she was ready to talk to Trystan. To say this day had taken an unexpected turn was understating it.
Her day had derailed and then tumbled off a cliff.
“So, how’s Luna?” she asked, feeling a pang of loss as she thought of the sweet dog.
“She misses you. Almost as much as I do.”
“Where is she now?” Iris asked, hoping to divert him.
“At home. She’s tired and a little grumpy. We did a lot of flying over the last thirty-six hours.”
A brief, uncomfortable silence settled between them.
“What did you mean when you said you have a disguise?” she asked, keen to keep things as impersonal as possible, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly stay that way. She lined the glasses up in neat little rows in front of her. Trystan followed her lead and did the same.
“Oh,” he said, his beautiful, big hands pausing in their movements while he reached into his chest pocket and produced—a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He propped them on his nose and gave her that famous, mischievous, heart-stopping grin of his.
“Clear glass, see? Et voila! Trystan Abbott is no more,” he said, lowering his hands with a flourish.
Iris choked back a chuckle and shook her head with a roll of her eyes.
“I’ve got news for you there, Clark Kent. That disguise is not as effective as you may believe.”
“You’d be surprised. Add a baseball cap to these and it’s like I disappear.”
“My father would kill you stone-dead if you wore a baseball cap at this event.”
He held up his index finger, and then smoothed his disheveled hair into the semblance of a conservative side-parted style.
“Luckily you won’t be interacting with the guests,” she said with another head shake.
“Pity, because you’d be amazed at how effective this can be.” Another devastating smile that quite literally stole Iris’s breath away. She didn’t know how the silly man could think he could ever simply disappear thanks to a pair of fake glasses.