Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
About her. The more I learn about her, the more I want to know.
Like the thing she said about being a virgin.
Is it true? And if so…why?
She’s so beautiful and sweet and funny. So sexy without even trying.
“None of your business,” I tell myself as I pull out onto the road and start toward the village, scanning the woods on either side for signs of a woman in pajamas and sock feet.
That’s what I should be thinking about—the fact that a woman I’ve taken under my protection is out in the rapidly cooling Alpine night without a jacket or shoes or any way of calling for help if she runs into trouble.
And I am thinking about—worrying about—those things.
But I’m also thinking about how beautiful she was last night, naked in the bath, fragile-looking, but with a sensual strength vibrating from her slender frame. I’d wanted to touch her so badly I’d been ashamed of myself. She was sick and suffering, and there I was, sneaking looks at her curves beneath the water and wishing I could taste every inch of her fever-hot skin.
By the time I’d helped her out of the bath and into her pajamas, I’d been hard, but thankfully she’d been too exhausted to notice.
Still, the fact that I’d been turned on by a seriously ill woman kept me awake for a good hour after I lay down on the sofa bed beneath the bookshelves.
But it wasn’t her weakness that appealed to me. It was her determination in the face of it, her unflagging sense of humor, even when I could tell she wasn’t feeling up to making jokes. It was the way she smiled when I read aloud to her from Great Expectations these past few days, humming in agreement with all my favorite parts.
It’s just…her.
This woman I’m falling in love with.
This woman who hates my guts.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the stillness in the car. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
8
Elizabeth
There are few advantages to being scrawny and chronically out of shape.
My sit bones stick out of my nearly non-existent backside in a way that makes it painful to sit in a chair without a cushion, I get winded walking up the circular stairs to my sewing room, and off-the-rack clothing never fits quite right.
Once I acquired more advanced training as a seamstress, I was able to make my clothes, but as a teenager, I was doomed to scour the children’s section, struggling to find something without a unicorn print or pink glitter on it.
But custom making my wardrobe is also a pain in my bony backside. I don’t enjoy sewing practical clothing—or anything for myself, really. I prefer to spend my time and energy creating beautiful, whimsical, sexy things for other women’s adventures.
Other people’s fashion needs are far more interesting than mine.
Other people, in general, are far more interesting than I am.
I am a woman without mystery, who has known since she was a small child exactly when her journey would end. I’m sure that has stunted my emotional growth and is—in part, at least—why I spend more time dreaming than doing. Why I float where the current takes me, while my sisters confidently paddle their own canoes.
But there are occasions when being a small, chronically exhausted introvert who would rather hide from the world than face her problems comes in handy.
When I want to disappear, I simply…disappear.
As a child, I was the undisputed queen of hide-and-seek. As an adult, I can manage to avoid my mother for months, even though we live in the same wing of the castle and both rarely leave home. With a split-second’s notice of confrontation ahead, I can find a nook or cranny, shove myself into it, and stay there as long as necessary.
It is my superpower.
So when I reach the top of the cabin’s stairs—my heart hammering and my lungs screeching that they weren’t made for feats of athleticism like moving quickly so soon after waking—I swiftly run through my list of previously vetted hiding places and choose the one most likely to stump Jeffrey.
Jeffrey is a large person, not just tall, but broad and thickly muscled with hands so huge they dwarf every utensil in the kitchen. And large people always underestimate just how tiny a human body can get when motivated to vanish.
I dive behind the kitchen counter and crawl to the cabinet beneath the sink just as I hear Jeffrey at the top of the stairs. Holding my breath, I open the cabinet door and crawl inside, tucking myself in between the pipes and the cleaning products and shutting myself away.
I close my eyes, focusing on slowing my breathing and sipping air through my nose as quietly as possible. At first, I’m keenly aware of Jeffrey’s search and the way my heart twitches behind my ribs every time he calls my name or opens a closet door.