Page 41 of Rosabel and the Billionaire Beast

“Hey.” I pouted. “The time period sounds horrible if that’s all you focus on.”

The car took another sharp turn, and I tightened my fists in my lap, pressing my head to the back of the seat and praying the meds kicked in soon.

“They’re arguable detriments to the time period,” Duncan argued, surprising me all the more that he even had an opinion on this particular subject. It wasn’t like we held conversations on the regular, let alone about such serious subjects.

“A woman had very few rights, and her best chance at success was to get married, but even then, everything she owned belonged to her husband.”

I sat up. This was no new dispute to me, yet for some reason, arguing with him was invigorating.

“I like theromanceof the time period,” I said. “If you were to look at today, you’d find our flaws as well, despite all the amazing medical advances and women’s rights.”

“Point taken. And this?” He pointed upward to the invisible speaker as the song shifted to a Credence Clearwater Revival hit.If I didn’t know any better, I could have sworn our driver began humming under his breath.

“The Beatles are my childhood. My dad loved this music, and I grew up listening to it.”

“And still continue to torture yourself with it.”

Said the man who admittedly listened to rap.

I smiled. “Who said it was torture? This music is where it’s at. You said you’re a fan of rock and roll.”

“So?” he hedged, not giving a definitive answer.

“So you owe your allegiance to The Beatles. They’re the instigators of rock. And Elvis.”

“Absolutely not,” Duncan said. “We’renotlistening to Elvis.”

I laughed, grateful my motion sickness had abated.

The driver slowed, readying for another turn. I chanced a glimpse outside and gasped. We’d left paved roads behind and now trailed along a single-lane path lined by trees on either side. The occasional cabin came into view before the driver took another rather sharp turn and headed toward what appeared to be a community of its own caliber.

As far as homes went, this area was a gold mine. The houses stuck their noses out at the other cabins Duncan and I had passed. These were upscale log cabins that were more akin to ski lodges than a place any single person—or any single family—should live.

“When you said, ‘lake house,’ I was picturing a cozy little log cabin with like a cuddle-worthy fireplace and some flannel curtains.”

The driver slowed along the street, and I gaped at the massive, beautiful mansions clustered with a shimmering lake as their backdrop. These homes were enormous and probably featured every possible extravagance within their walls.

“They’re lake houses. I just hope they’re far enough away,” he added under his breath.

I wondered if I’d heard him correctly. “Far enough away from what?”

He didn’t answer, so I turned my attention back to the homes out the window.

Some were constructed of logs, while others were covered with stones. They featured every architectural style anyone could wish for: short porches, sweeping stairs, enormous entryways, and glittering windows set off with shutters and stone.

And then there was the landscaping. Each house’s design fit perfectly with the rustic, mountainous surroundings. Gravel gardens, oaks and pines, small shrubs, and personal ponds that were undoubtedly stocked with fish.

“These are huge,” I said.

I imagined every home we passed had sky-high ceilings and over-the-top embellishments that would cost me years of my salary.

“This neighborhood is exclusive,” Duncan said. “A mountain cove. Not Victorian, but still…”

“Stunning,” I said. “I’ve never seen one house this huge, let alone an entire community of them. People actually live here?”

Duncan returned his attention to his device, but he peered over his tablet long enough to grunt in agreement.

I nudged his shoulder. “Come on, you haven’t even looked yet.”

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