Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91786 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I bow my head bashfully. I’ve never wanted to talk with other people more in my life than I do with this family.
“Och, aye,” he says, looking at me with a mixture of curiosity and wonder. “She is.”
I look away from them, unable to process how to respond to their kindness. Why would people as fierce as them be kind to a girl like me?
“How’s Nan?”
“Ah, the usual,” he says. “Feisty as hell and needs another caretaker. I sacked the one Tavish hired.”
They talk briefly, then he takes my hand and leads me to the exit.
“As soon as we’re eighteen, we skive off,” he says, “eager to have a place of our own, though we eat every fucking meal with the family.” He shakes his head. “My family likes to stay close together. I like the privacy, though.” He frowns, as the door shuts behind us and a biting wind picks up.
I nod. I don’t blame him at all.
He smiles wryly to himself, and my heart does all sorts of funny somersaults in my chest. I love it when he smiles.
I’m dying of curiosity to see his home. I wonder if seeing where he lives will give me some insight into who he is and how he ticks.
“I’ve had the staff bring your things,” he says. “They should all be there by now.”
I nod, wishing I could tell him thank you.
He holds me tightly as we walk down the icy hill toward a brightly lit chalet so wild and rugged it looks as if it’s grown straight out of the pines that surround it. It’s built like the lodge, out of solid logs. Warm yellow light falls to the ground from the windows, and though I can’t see many details in the dark, it looks cozy and inviting. There’s a massive black truck parked out front. His?
He holds my hand and talks as we head to his house. “I don’t like making the girls angry,” he says wistfully. “My father could allow them to go as they please, but he knows he won’t always be here, and it’s up to the Clan Captain to make sure everyone’s safe.”
I nod. It makes sense to me.
“One day I’ll tell you about Tavish and what happened to him,” he says. “It was an accident, of course, but one we could’ve prevented. And this family’s never fully recovered from his loss. The death of the eldest brother is a decided blow.”
Oh, wow. So Tavish was not only a brother, but he was also the oldest brother. Makes sense, then, that Leith isn’t the rightful Captain of the mafia. Is that why he’s so touchy and temperamental? Does he feel he has big shoes to fill?
We reach his home, and he opens the door with a series of buttons and keys. He swings the door open, and gestures for me to go in, like he’s being all gentlemanly.
Not on your life. It’s terrifyingly dark in there, and all I need is a spider coming to attack me. I shake my head, and he gives me a curious look. I make a wiggly motion with my fingers.
He tips his head to the side. “You’re afraid of spiders?”
Among other things. I nod. I most certainly am.
“Yeah, I get it, but there shouldn’t be any. It’s impeccably clean in there.” Still, he seems amused.
I look about me, realizing for the first time we’re standing on a snow-laden porch. Wow.
Even beneath the moonlight, I can tell this is something special. It overlooks the mountains, like his home does, and a part of me wants to sit here and look at those mountains illuminated by the rising sun.
“C’mon,” he says, taking me by the hand. “Come in.”
He pushes the door open, flicks a light switch, and leads me in. I stare in amazement, and I swear my jaw unhinges. It’s gorgeous, like I’ve walked right into a magazine that advertises a mountain lodge escape.
Though he flicked the switch for overhead lighting, the recessed lighting hidden deep in the ceiling makes casts a warm glow on the surroundings. The entire home is built from logs, it looks like.
Dark wood lines the interior, the exposed beams aged wood of some kind. Oak? Antique accents are scattered throughout the room—sturdy, dark brown leather furniture, a large couch by the fireplace with white and tan-colored throw cushions, a tufted ottoman in front of a large armchair, and a roughly-hewn, wooden coffee table. Books lay strewn about in neat piles, on a little table with a lamp on it, on the coffee table, and stacked on bookshelves as far as I can see.
I didn’t peg him as a reader. I almost shake my head at myself. I’d think a man like him would be more guilty of stereotyping, yet here I am doing that exact same thing.