Page 81 of A Billion Dollar Romance
The thought didn’t bring me any joy.
* * *
“We’re here, miss.”
The crunch of gravel petered off as the car rolled to a standstill, and I blinked, focusing my eyes again after letting a hundred miles of trees wash by.
The…structureout the window wasnota cabin.
“This is James Martin’s cabin?” His name scraped through my throat.
He nodded resolutely. “It is.”
I sighed.
“Thank you,” I said, and opened the door.
The wind gusted through my hair as I stood, and I shivered, looking up at the… the lodge. Two stories, with a stone facade the same shade of gray as the cloudy sky above us. A pointed roofline, under which a huge plate-glass window also reflected the cloudy sky.
Certainly not the wood-stoved, twin bed, spartan environment I’d imagined, but as the wind stole the warmth that lingered in my clothing, I found myself a little bit thankful for that. This place looked like it had about six bedrooms; presumablyoneof them would have central heating.
I picked up the tote bag that held my laptop, and the chauffeur lugged my suitcase up the stairs to the foyer and through the wide door, holding it open for me.
“Wow,” I said aloud. “Okay.”
Three months, here?
Despite it all, I was thankful.
It was just hard to feel the gratitude through the desperate ache in my chest.
* * *
I’d found a bottle of wine in the wine cellar.
Thewine cellar.
James hadn’t told me explicitly that I could help myself to his wine collection, but he had told me to make myself at home, and I’d done just that: even as the chauffeur was pulling out of the long drive, I’d wandered into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to find it stocked. I checked the expiration date on the half-gallon of milk, just in case: next week. He’d had someone fill the fridge. My jaw tightened. I’d gone to the cabinet instead, pulling out a wine glass, and set out in search of something to fill it with.
I’d texted Flora that I’d arrived safely. After avoiding her on Friday evening, I’d confessed everything Saturday morning. That she’d been right. That I’d be leaving. James had called and texted and finally emailed me the flight details. He’d organized a private flight for me from a tiny terminal, direct from New York to Maine, where I’d be picked up by a driver and taken to the cabin. I’d just sent back anokay.I’d slept at Flora’s Saturday night, cried and eaten ice cream, and let her drive me to the airport Sunday morning.
Now, I sat in front of a massive gas fireplace, curled underneath a wool blanket on a sweet-smelling leather couch, a glass of wine in my hand and a novel from the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room. It was a classic–one of those books I’d always meant to read, but never gotten around to. I was warm, and cozy, and comfortable, and in desperate need of a distraction.
Tomorrow, I would get everything set up. I would organize my notes and papers and manuscripts, and finally–finally–I would write my masterpiece.
But tonight? I poured myself a little bit more wine. Tonight was just for me.
I’d read the same page four times when I realized an old man going on a quest of self-discovery wasnotgoing to cut it. I tossed it aside in a huff, throwing back the blanket and going in search of a replacement. I got distracted taking myself on a tour, peeking into bedrooms and storage rooms and offices and closets and bathrooms, and then–
“Ah-ha,” I said to myself after flicking on the lights in a bedroom decorated in soft blues. A bookshelf in this room held not leather-bound classics, but…
I pulled one at random from the shelf.The Wayward Duke,the title read, and I smiled, flipping it over to read the back cover.
I shoved it back onto the shelf, my smile fading, and picked a second, only to push that one away, too.
Why were so many dukes named James?
On the next attempt, I got as far asBenedict, twelfth earl of Rosedeep,before deciding this was the one. He was blond, too, I saw as I flipped back to the front cover, and she was a redhead. A feisty one, I was willing to bet. I took the book back to my blanket and my fireplace and my wine and curled up to read, letting myself sink into the story as into quicksand.
