Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Charlie meanders towards the garden, studying the relic of a building. He has a quiet love of old architecture.
I glance behind me before I enter. Beyond our parked cars on the gravel path.
Land stretches as far as my eye can see. Sheep roam with leisure, and if I strain my ears, I can almost hear the babble of a stream passing through this calm little hamlet.
I begin to smile. I’m truly happy that this is a viable option for my best friend’s wedding. It’s peaceful here. Maximoff and Farrow also chose this remote spot in the countryside because it’d be an absolute pain for paparazzi to reach.
It wasn’t even easy for us.
Figuring out how to shuffle vendors and guests to this location is a brainteaser. But I love a good logic puzzle, and I haven’t been this excited in a while. Something must be in the Scottish air or the fact that Thatcher keeps stealing glances as we head inside.
His boldness should heat me head-to-toe like a boiling furnace. It usually does, but there is a glaring issue with Mackintosh House.
It’s hellishly cold.
I shiver as I wheel in my suitcase.
“This place is super creepy,” Sulli says under her breath, the wallpaper deep reds and greens, a winding banister leads to the dark upstairs, and old black and white photographs hang on the walls. Doily cloths are absolutely everywhere.
“I love it,” I announce.
Oscar passes me. “Retro Granny Realness.” He raises his hand for a high-five, and I tap his palm with a smile before he treks upstairs.
“I bet it’s kinda haunted.” Luna snaps photos on her phone. “Kinney is gonna love this.” She inspects the picture she just captured. “Or she’ll hate that she’s missing out.” The young girls couldn’t ditch their last week in school before winter break.
Sulli and Luna leave to go unpack, but I don’t follow.
While footsteps and voices echo around the drafty eight-bedroom house, I’m on a hunt in the rustic kitchen. Knees on the icy hardwood, I fumble through a crooked junk drawer, searching for any manuals to the heaters.
None will turn on, and Mackintosh House is far too large to be heated from a single living room fireplace.
I reach the bottom stack of papers.
“Any luck?” Thatcher saunters into the kitchen.
I blow a frizzed hair off my lip. Oh…
He’s…exceedingly tall. While I’m down here, on my knees.
His white button-down and dog tags also take me aback for a second. Even if he appears like his brother, I could never mistake him for Banks like Tony and O’Malley already have.
Neither one batted an eye on the plane.
I skim him a little more, a sweltering breath in my lungs. I suppose Thatcher seeing me dressed in all black would be just as jarring for him.
I shut the drawer. “The only manual I could find was for the washer/dryer.” I stand, a chill biting my neck, and I pull my zebra coat tighter around my breasts.
Thatcher switches on the gas burner and oven. Flames lick the stovetop grates. “Come here.” He motions me closer.
He is incredibly inviting. All six-foot-seven of him. Oh-so-warm and…hot.
So eloquent.
I follow his direction. More cautiously, I land next to him but keep my distance. A dreadful six inches separate our bodies.
That should be enough.
I’d normally stand this far from Banks.
Thatcher stares down at me, as though assessing my temperature from sight alone, and I look up at him, aching to step a little closer.
“It should heat up soon,” Thatcher says, standing sturdy next to the oven door. He glances from the kitchen entryway to my arms that hug my body. “Can I?”
My lips pull higher. “Can you…?”
He reaches out and his fingers run gently along my wrist, tingling my soft flesh. I pulse between my legs, and I inhale without the ability to exhale. Warmth pricks my nerves like he’s carried me to a roaring fire.
Our eyes dive deeper, and when I nod him on, his clutch strengthens. He guides my palm over the flaming stovetop, and his hand lingers on my wrist, not letting go of me.
I don’t want him to.
My hip brushes his stoic body, the six inches now shrunk to zero. Thatcher and I risk the nearness, and he’s so perceptive of his surroundings that I trust his instincts if we go too far.
He subtly checks the entryway.
I check more blatantly.
Clear.
Attention returned to each other, I whisper, “I’m glad you’re here with me.” I’ve said so a few times already. “I like you—I mean, I more than like you, which you know…” Nervous flush bathes me, and I stare at him, panic-eyed.
He seems so put-together in this moment, and I’m still frazzled like an awkward mess. Yet, I love how he makes me feel utterly unraveled. As though he’s the only man who can reach a rare piece of me and pull and undo me at the seams.