Page 29 of Mysteries, Menace, and Mates

“Wait—sex?” Roadkill’s eyes gleamed. “Psh. I’ll eat anything you want.”

She smirked at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Eve swallowed. “But seriously? There’s something I need to tell you before we go on the mission.”

Roadkill leaned against the countertop, hot as fuck in nothing but his white shorts, hair sticking up as usual, glasses perched on the end of his nose, arms folded.

“The hot chocolate can wait.”

Eve pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “You remember I told you my parents moved to the States when I was ten?” Both of them nodded. “Well, what I didn’t mention was the fact that I still have a lot of relatives over in the UK. Actually most of them are in Lancashire.”

Hashtag grinned. “No wonder you recognized the accent.” His eyes lit up. “Oh, I get it. Do you want to visit your family when we’re over there? I don’t think H would mind. It might have to wait until after the—”

“Can you stop talking, please? Just for a minute or two?” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been building up the nerve to talk about this ever since we found each other, and it isn’t easy, okay?”

Roadkill joined her at the table, Hashtag a moment later. Roadkill took her hand.

“Whatever it is, I guarantee it’s not as bad as you think it’s going to be.”

Gods, she hoped so.

“Okay.” Another calming breath. “The thing is… my grandfather’s dying. And before you start commiserating? Don’t. He used his home as a meeting place in the old days—for Gerans. It makes my blood run cold to think of what was discussed under that roof. But the reason I’m telling you all this? When I joined the military, Grandfather wasn’t happy. He said my place was at the side of my future husband.” She scowled. “I think he even had a few guys already picked out for me. I told him I wanted to serve. So he said he was going to change his will in my favor, so that when he passed, his home would belong to me. He didn’t say itimplicitly, but I think he figured I’d get a man who’d take care of the little woman and force me to stay home, waiting for my big, strong husband to save me. Thing is, I was never going to be that girl.”

“Like fuck you would,” Hashtag snapped. “You, my sweet thing, are a big, strong, independent woman who kicks ass and doesn’t bother to take names.”

Roadkill grinned. “What he said. We love you for who you are, not who you’re expected to be. If we ever, and I meaneveract like that—”

“I’ll kick your asses, promise.” That earned her a laugh.

“So why are you telling us this now?” Hashtag asked.

She sighed. “My parents loved his idea. It meant they wouldn’t have to worry about my future. It wasn’t as if they needed the property—Mom had already inherited her parents’ place. Even my brother loved the idea, because he certainly didn’t want to be tied down to such a huge undertaking. I guess my grandfather intended it to be a sort of incentive for me to leave my career and become one of the ladies who lunch, who run charities, who support their husband’s political campaign, who organize the tours, who?”

“Tours? What kind of tours?” Hashtag asked, his brow furrowed.

Another swallow. “Tours… of the house. People pay to visit it.”

Roadkill blinked. “He’s leaving you a house big enough to drawtourists?” He grinned. “It’s not Buckingham Palace, is it?”

Eve pointed to Hashtag’s laptop, which was never too far from him. “Fire that up. Then I want you to google something.”

He did as instructed. “Okay. What am I searching for?”

“Gawthorpe Hall.”

Keys clattered, and she knew the minute he’d found it when both men gasped in sync.

“Holy fuck!” Hashtag croaked.

“Welcome to my ancestral pile,” she quipped.

“I don’t think Buckingham Palace was all that far off the mark,” Roadkill admitted.

“Listen to this.” Hashtag read aloud. “‘Gawthorpe Hall is an Elizabethan country house on the banks of the River Calder, in Ightenhill, a civil parish in the Borough of Burnley, Lancashire, England.’”

“My jaw dropped at Elizabethan.” Roadkill stared at her. “And it’s going to be yours?”

She nodded. “Well, more accurately, it’d be ours.”

“It’s got forty acres,” Hashtag said with a low whistle.

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