Total pages in book: 163
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 787(@200wpm)___ 630(@250wpm)___ 525(@300wpm)
“Okay.” His giggling and Gertie’s bark follows before Hugh’s voice sounds.
“Hello. School was fine. The drive home was fine. I don’t have any homework and I’ll remember to brush my teeth before bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
“Hugh, don’t …”
“Too late,” Holland says.
“…Rush off. I feel so loved,” I add brightly despite experiencing a poke of sadness.
“Tweens are the new teens,” she answers sagely.
“I can’t wait for the actual teen years.”
“Yeah, right,” she says through a laugh. “Well, I’m off to bribe them into doing their homework, then I think we’re gonna watch a movie.”
“Sounds like fun.” My heart aches to be there.
We say goodbyes and as the call disconnects, I drop my head to my arms and exhale a loud sigh. The conversation already feels like a blur, but the main takeaway is they’re all okay. Secluded in a medieval fortress castle with mace, swords, and pikes decorating the walls, and actual rifles in the gun room.
They’re okay.
I’m okay.
And Van is… doing whatever he can to help, and I’m sure he’ll be okay, too.
A distraction. I need a distraction. And something to eat, I realize, as my stomach begins to rumble. I haven’t eaten since breakfast—though reducing a croissant to crumbs probably doesn’t really add to my calorie count. Julia offered to make me something, but I was wound too tight (and too suspicious, even if I have no right) to take her up on her offer. But hearing that all is well at home seems to have reinstated my appetite.
Rounding the island, I pull open the fridge. No hanging venison, thankfully, but someone shops in Harrod’s food hall, I see.
“And someone is a cheese fiend,” I whisper, tickled by the insight. Beaufort d’Alpage, Brie de Meaux, Stinking Bishop, Tomme de Chèvre and Crottin de Chavignol. “Oh, yum.” Slow-baked Dottato figs. I pull out the figs and the goat’s cheese, glancing twice at the open bottle of Pinot standing next to the organic milk. What the hell. I whip it out as well, and before long, my carb loving heart has found a loaf of walnut bread. Slotted away in one of the cabinets; nothing so common as a bread bin to sully these marble surfaces. Next, I find a glass and a plate, and before long, I’m smoothing creamy dairy onto an earthy, nutty slice of heaven.
“Mmm.” My eyes almost roll to the back of my head at the flavor explosion because Niko isn’t the only cheese fiend, though I limit myself to the occasional cheese blow out or I’d end up the size of a house. I wonder what Niko does to keep in trim given he likes cheese, too.
Maybe he keeps trim with Julia.
So what if he does. It has nothing to do with me who he sleeps with.
Except he occasionally sleeps with me.
My God, shut up brain!
I take a sip from my wine. Then a swig. I’m not going to turn myself in knots over him.
I swipe my knife through the chèvre again, and tearing off a little more bread, spread the yummy goodness across it and top it off with a little sticky fig. Glorious, a cheese and wine party for one.
“Bastard,” I mutter around the mouthful, because that’s what Tom used to call my solo feasting. “Absolute twat.” I spear a fig. If it wasn’t for that lactose intolerant arse, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I’m not going to think about it. I’ll save my anger, store it up for next time I see him when I’ll tell him from now on, I’m Tom intolerant. It’s a shame I can’t murder the father of my children. But I could maim him, maybe.
After eating my fill, I clear away the evidence before topping up my glass. A little Dutch courage to keep me company as I ‘make myself at home.’ Also known as snooping. When he’d made the invitation, I wonder if he meant I should leave the empty cardboard toilet roll containers on the vanity or smear a little toothpaste where it ought not to be. That’s what men do, how they make themselves feel at home, isn’t it? Before selling you out to Russian criminals, of course.
Van’s house is huge. And that’s saying something, considering I grew up in a castle. It must’ve been carved up into multiple apartments when I’d last visited. I wonder what prompted him to want to own the whole house, and extend it, by the looks of things as I turn left out of the kitchen and down an enclosed staircase that I can’t imagine would’ve been part of the original design. The house has to be Grade I listed historically for preservation, and while it’s retained all of the charm and architectural aesthetic of the regency period, it’s been thoroughly brought up to date. It’s not creaky and draughty like Sandy’s London place, instead warm and sumptuous, even though I’m heading to the subterranean level.