Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I thought the kitchen at my cabin was impressive, but this is like four times bigger, with dark marble counters, a large island, and a rounded old-world arch leading into the dining room, which is flanked by bookshelves along the walls that reach to the ceiling.
So many books.
It’s like a mini library, except for one wall by the window overlooking an insanely large garden and pool. There’s nowhere to sit except the huge dining room table, all stunning and glossy wood, large enough to seat… a lot of people.
There are also red paintings of cardinals hanging on the walls. They all look like the same artist’s work, the birds striking different poses in new landscapes and seasons.
I’m sensing a theme.
“Gorgeous,” I murmur, reaching out to touch the modern frame. The signature in the painting’s corner is large and loopy, with a D and a R intertwined, but I can’t quite make out the name.
“Winnie.”
I whip around to face the voice behind me, clamping a hand over my mouth.
“Oh—hi. You… you startled me.”
“Clearly.” Archer folds his arms as he looks at me, more bear than man.
It’s insane how hard he rocks the daddy look. Like you’d know he’s a dad just by looking at him, stoic and intense and maddeningly hot.
He’s just wearing trousers and a button-down shirt today, no jacket to be seen. And holy hell, it shows off his shoulders, two massive hills honed by pushing boulders. What does this man eat?
“What are you doing here?” he demands.
Right. Back to business.
I clear my throat, nodding at the painting I was admiring. “They’re so pretty. I was just wondering where they came from.”
“Oh, that.” His arms loosen slightly. “They’re my mother’s. She’s been painting for years.”
“Cardinals, huh? Is she big into birds? They’re really pretty.”
“They’ve become a family symbol of sorts.” His mouth opens like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. “Colt says you brought cake.”
“Oh, yeah!” I gesture at the container on the table, which looks laughably tiny in this cavernous room. “It’s not much, but I figured I should bring you a peace offering.”
“What peace offering? Didn’t know we were at war.” After raking his eyes over my body, he picks up the cake and cracks the lid open to sniff. “Smells good,” he says, and I swear there’s a trace of surprise in his voice. “What is it?”
“Cheesecake. Honey and lemon. I whipped it up with some of the honey from the hives.”
“I see the purple. Impressive, knowing that’s not dye.” He puts the cake back down and turns his attention to me, which I could do without because now I’m ready to throw myself on his mercy and my courage is sputtering. My cheeks are red, mere seconds from combusting. “So why are you here?”
“Well.” Deep breath. “I thought begging might work better in person than over the phone.”
“Begging?” His frown hasn’t left his face, which makes me feel worse.
I’m in his space, making him feel weirded out, and it’s so large and elegant and oh my God this is humiliating.
“I spoke to my dad earlier today…” I draw in a long breath and exhale, focusing on not letting it shake on its way out. You know, just in case I’m tempted to fall apart. I wrap my arms around my shoulders, hoping I can hold myself together. “He’s kind of a control freak. Maybe you guessed that. He likes to keep a tight lid on money that’s rightfully mine.”
“I see,” he says slowly.
“And right now, the lid just kinda stuck—it’s locked. Permanently. Like throw away the key.” This time, I can’t stop my voice from shaking.
My eyes sting.
I blink harshly, another black mark on the long list of embarrassing things I’ve done in front of this man.
But he’s so close to me now.
I don’t even know when he got this close, but I can see every detail of his blue-and-white striped shirt, so tight against his biceps it looks like it’s painted on.
His sharp scent washes over me. No man has any right to smell this good, like mint and citrus and fresh laundry thrown together in this unholy union.
God, it would be so easy to lean forward.
To rest my forehead on his chest, safe and secure in his wall of heated human stone.
“I can’t afford the cabin anymore,” I blurt out. I have to say something before I lose my courage and start honking ugly sobs. “I thought I could, honestly, but he’s pissed that I’m not coming home and—” The lack of oxygen makes my head spin, and I take a breath. “And the point is, I don’t get access to my money again unless I go home. He’s holding everything except my bank account hostage.”
Archer’s mouth is a hard, flat line.
Big surprise.
I’d be pissed too if this weird bee girl showed up with a runaway bride sob story to complicate my life. I’ve already cost him his patience, his time, his sanity—and now I’m asking for his financial well-being, too.