Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142976 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 715(@200wpm)___ 572(@250wpm)___ 477(@300wpm)
“Maybe we could just leave? I feel like a clown. That guy really caked on the make-up,” Fern said, getting up to pace the length of the room, wringing her hands and worrying at her upper lip with her teeth.
“You look beautiful,” Cade reassured. He’d remained seated on the burgundy leather couch, watching her movements the way a lazy cat would an agitated mouse. He was wearing all black, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d had his hair cut just after their arrival in London the day before. And whenever Fern looked at him, her palms itched to stroke that sleek, military short pelt of black hair.
She found him utterly diverting. So beautiful it physically hurt to look at him. She could only glance at him for a few seconds at a time, afraid that if she allowed herself to stare for too long, she’d simply never look away again. She longed to curl up in his lap, unbutton his shirt and snuggle up against his warm, hard chest. She ached to feel his arms around her again, she’d never felt more secure than when he’d held her.
And she hated her weakness for wanting all of that.
To distract herself, she summoned up the guts to inspect her reflection in one of the many full-length mirrors dotted around the room. Fern hated to admit it, but—even though it felt like the make-up had been pancaked on—she looked nice. The make-up artist had added a slight rosy flush to her pale cheeks and soft blush pink color to her lips. While he’d used more products than she’d been able to keep up with, it didn’t look like she was wearing much make-up at all. He’d given her a very light smokey eye, enhanced by the black of her lashes, and a dewy fresh complexion with minimal, flattering pink tones everywhere else. The soft, pretty green of the deceptively simple A-line dress with fitted long sleeves and a high collar, that she was wearing deepened the color of her eyes and complemented her skin tone.
Cade couldn’t stop staring at her. She was his opposite in every way. Light to his darkness, slender and fragile compared to his bulk, air to his earth, water to his fire. And despite the fact that only a few of those things could coexist harmoniously, he was drawn like a moth to her moonlight. Ironic, really, since he’d once thought of Fern as the moth. Now all he saw was a beautiful butterfly with translucent wings, too fragile to fly solo, but too lovely to cage.
He knew that her morning sickness had mostly disappeared over the last couple of weeks and with its departure, her skin had started to glow with health. Strictly rationed—by him, despite her protestations—daily exposure to the sun, had added the faintest undertone of honey to her complexion, enhancing that beautiful healthy glow. He found it extremely hard to look away from her these days and even harder to keep his hands to himself.
She started pacing again, chewing her lip, wringing her hands, muttering to herself. He didn’t like seeing her like this. He’d read that stress—which could wreak havoc on even the healthiest of immune systems—could play a role in pregnancy complications and he hated that he’d been unable to protect her from the anxiety of the last couple of weeks.
He sat up, dropping his forearms to his thighs with his hands dangling between his knees.
“Hey,” he called, and despite the quietness of his tone, the word seemed to penetrate her spiraling panic and she stopped dead to look at him. “Come and sit down.”
He patted the sofa beside him and she stared at the empty spot for a moment, a concerned frown marring her smooth brow.
“Come on, Fern, you need to calm down, or you’ll be a bundle of nerves by the time we go on.”
Her shoulders and head dropped and she trudged over to him, her disconsolation evident in her body language.
She settled down beside him and he reached for the rucksack he’d brought along. She’d eyed the bag curiously when they’d left the townhouse in Knightsbridge but hadn’t asked about it.
“You haven’t eaten much today, you should have a snack,” he muttered, digging through the bag, before triumphantly producing an energy bar.
“They have snacks,” she said, indicating toward the laden tables.
“Uh huh, I told them about your peanut allergy but I don’t trust them not to have forgotten, so I’d feel better if you had one of these instead.”
She stared at the granola bar in his hand for the longest time, as if not entirely sure what to make of it.
“It’s mixed berry and yoghurt,” she said, and he frowned down at the snack, not sure why she’d felt the need to point that out.