Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138981 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry if my teasing was a bit much.” I offer a smile. “It’s probably pretty inappropriate right now, anyway.”
Ulysses sobers. “Because of the dead girl, you mean.”
I wince and look away.
The easy air between us immediately evaporates.
“Yes,” I force out.
“I suppose the usual rumors are flying, aren’t they? Rich single man, beautiful young girl, a reputation for extravagant parties and dirty affairs. Tell me, am I a murderer now, too, Miss Clarendon?”
“No!” I say quickly, shaking my head. “She died of a drug overdose, I think. How could you have murdered her?”
He looks relieved. Almost pleased, really.
“I know I shouldn’t ask where you get your information from,” Ulysses says softly. “But it calms my heart to know you have some faith in my innocence. In me.”
Whoa.
I don’t know what to say to that or to the heavy look he beams over.
So I look down, avoiding his searching green gaze, swirling my straw in the last slushy remnants of my drink.
“I should probably get going. I’m still not done unpacking, and I need to get used to waking up early. Especially since there’s a staff meeting tomorrow. I think I get to meet the PTA.”
“Don’t forget to cover that tattoo. The Stepford Army will not approve,” he warns gently. Then he stands, offering me his arm. “Let me walk you to your car. It’s late, and you never know who’s around.”
God help me, I almost say no.
But then I look out at the last orange light fading into evening gloom.
I remember the Jacobins just staring, like they had a terrible reason to.
That hideous red X under the window of The Rookery pokes me in the brain again.
Okay, fine.
Maybe just this once.
Nodding, I drain the last of my drink and stand to throw it away before slipping my hand into his arm. “It’s not far. I appreciate it.”
“Miss Clarendon, I would escort you every night—if you’d allow me.”
My face heats.
I really don’t know what to say to that.
Is he asking me on a date?
Was this a freaking date to him?
Sweet Jesus, I’m confused.
That’s definitely not a minefield I want to walk into tonight, and Ulysses shares blood with the people signing my paychecks.
I just force on a polite smile as we step out into the twilight. On the way to my car, we pass that furniture store again.
I can’t help how my steps slow, how I cast one last longing look at that gorgeous desk.
I must be pretty obvious.
Ulysses stops, looking at the display window with its soft lights bringing out the wood’s finish.
“Striking, isn’t it?” he says. “I always admire what you can make when you put in the time and dedication. I suppose that’s how my family has always felt about Redhaven.”
I let go of his arm and push my hands into my pockets, studying the desk—but also our reflections, thin and pale in the window.
Me, short and dark; him, tall and bright.
We’re two different worlds that shouldn’t be seen together.
“Is that how you see yourselves?” I ask. “Like small-town caretakers?”
“We’ve been here longer than everyone, aside from the Jacobins, maybe. I suspect we’ll outlast them by generations,” he whispers. “An Arrendell was the first artisan to cut this fine furniture from the poplar and cherrywood here, long before it started attracting some of the finest craftsmen in the world. We help import a great deal of exotic lumber now. It’s part of what we do to help the town thrive—broker those sorts of deals, handle shipping, manage the tree farms we own around town. I suppose it’s hard not to think of ourselves as caretakers, yes, when the town relies on us for damned near everything.”
I’m supposed to be impressed, I guess.
But actually, it just rings a little hollow and arrogant.
Then again, it can’t be easy when your whole identity is built on a savior complex and nothing else.
I wonder if he senses my discomfort.
Ulysses suddenly glances at me with a self-deprecating smile. “You’ll be wanting to get home soon, won’t you?”
I wince guiltily. “It’s not you, Ulysses. I promise.”
“Did I say it was?” he asks sharply.
“No, but...”
But what? I swallow thickly.
“But you’re painfully aware that you’re trying to escape me,” he finishes. This time, his smile is bitter, but it seems more directed at himself than me. “Lucky you, Miss Clarendon, living all the way out there by yourself, where no one ever bothers you.”
...okay.
So I think I’ve upset him.
That’s the only explanation for this odd mood change.
I’m not even sure how to apologize.
So I let the silence linger as we make our way back to my car. Even though he’s quiet and seems locked up in his own head, he’s still almost courtly as he opens my car door for me and bows his head, watching me from under his brows with mournful eyes.
“Good night, Miss Clarendon,” he mutters. “See you again soon.”