I pick a piece of bacon and nibble on it, then try a few tiny bites of waffle. It’s really good. My stomach settles down a little, and I wish I had some ginger ale. That’s not going to happen, I remind myself. As soon as we go for our walk and I tell him my secret, I’ll be on the road again. I probably will tour Gael, spend a few days here, then go back to Scotland. Maybe even to Ireland before I head toward home.
Even though it hurts, being alone right now, I also sort of crave it. I need to figure out how I feel about the current state of my life, and what I want to do exactly. Staying on the ranch just isn’t plausible.
Not only because of the weird phone call and the potential Bryce-related dangers, but because as soon as I start showing just the smallest bit, it won’t be safe to work with horses anymore. Riding would put the baby at risk. And I can’t do my job without riding.
I haven’t looked past the day in front of me in more than a year, so I’m not sure what my backup plan should be. Maybe that’s a good thing. No over-thinking things, just making plans that I can execute. I’ve got this, I tell myself.
I notice a small tub of whipped cream and some sliced strawberries and pour those over my waffles. With a guilty look at all the other food, I zero in on them and down a waffle and a half before my stomach does another funny twist and I decide it’s time to have some water and be finished.
I dab my mouth, set down my napkin, and then there’s another knock.
“Come in.” My head buzzes a little, a light-headed feeling spurred by nerves.
It’s the girl again, Belinda. My helper person.
“Just checking in on you.”
“I’m good. I’m…sort of finished.” I expect some protest, but she simply bobs her head and starts to load the dishes back onto the cart.
“Prince Liam, he says to tell you dress in something fit for riding if you want to ride—horses, of course. And knock on his door when you’re ready.”
She moves all the food stuff out into the hall, then surprises me by coming back in as I’m taking off my robe to hand me a stack of clothes.
“Some riding gear, should you need it.”
I frown down at it, then remember my manners and give the girl a polite smile. “Thank you.”
I’m sure it’s not my size, but— Actually, it is, I realize as she leaves. The top and pants and boots are all my size.
I’m not sure if that’s cool or creepy. I shower quickly, dry my hair, work the locks into a French braid, do my eyeliner and mascara, brush some light makeup on, and put on lipstick. Then I slip into the clothes: tan breeches, a very pale blue-gray shirt, a leather belt, and riding shoes—all designer. They fit me flawlessly. I pull a red button-up sweater from my bag and put it on over the blue shirt. It matches okay, because the shirt is so pale, it’s almost white.
I glide on another layer of lipstick for good luck, rub some of my favorite vanilla lotion on my hands, and spray myself with rose water.
You can do this, I tell my reflection in the mirror. I refill Grey’s food and water, giving him a little rub and a pep talk before I check my phone—it’s 10:10 local time—and sling my purse across my chest. Then I walk across the hall and knock on Liam’s door.
SEVENTEEN Lucy
He answers with a brow raised. Within seconds, his handsome face is curved into a smile.
“Lucy…” He reaches for me, fingertips closing around the open hem of my button-up sweater.
For those first few seconds, I’m consumed by the gentle look on his face. By his long-lashed hazel eyes. What is with those eyes? They’re so…kind. So warm. Everything about him seems so open as he stands there in his doorway, with his grin and his hair down, hanging almost to his shoulders.
His body shifts a littler closer to mine. “You sleep okay?”
I feel my face warmed by his proximity. By the fact that I can smell him. I can feel his heat. My gaze stumbles over him, taking in his charcoal t-shirt and his faded, ripped jeans. I swallow. Nod.
“Good. Better than good,” I tack on. “That room is awesome.”
He shifts back a little, shoving both hands in his pockets. “Good. Breakfast okay?”
“For sure. It was a lot of food, though.”
He crooks a brow. “Too much food?” His face is skeptical. Teasing, I realize.
I shrug. “I felt kind of bad I couldn’t eat it all.”
“C’mon.” He bumps me with his elbow. “Don’t feel bad for that.”
“Southern culture isn’t very wasteful.”
He winks. “Kitchen is probably eating your left-overs.”
“Really?”
He smirks.
“You’re just saying that.”
He shrugs. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
He gives me a poker face, then steps back and turns slightly—and that’s when I notice the room around him.
“Holy God.”
With a jacket in his hand—one he just grabbed off a table—he turns to me, brows lifted.
“Sorry. Just…” I feel my eyes go wide as my gaze moves around the room. The bedroom set is enormous—the bed more than king-sized, made of dark, ornately carved wood. The bedding seems silk, and is in forest colors: browns, greens, golds, reds. What really catches my eye is a massive portrait of a woman on one wall. One look at her face—at her pretty eyes—and I can see she must be Liam’s mom.
“Wow.” I shake my head slowly. My gaze pulls to his. “Liam, that’s beautiful.”
“What is?”
“The portrait.” I nod at it. “Is that your mother?”
He nods once.
“Beautiful.”
His lips press into a thin line, and his eyebrows arch again. “Ready?” he asks, stepping out into the hall. His tone is slightly curt.
I nod. “Sure.”
As he shuts his door, I second-guess myself, then tell myself to quit. It’s not my fault he’s sensitive about his mother. I can take the hint and not mention her again, but no need to feel guilty that I did this time.
I’m looking out the windows as we pass them, rubbing my fingers over my phone, inside my purse, when Liam’s hand grabs my free one. His long, warm fingers twine through mine. He gives my hand a little squeeze. I look up at him, surprised anew by our height difference.
“You’re tall.”
He smirks. “You’re short.”
“How tall are you?”
“How tall are you?”
“Smartass.” I give his hand a playful squeeze. “I’m five-foot-three and a half.”
“And a half?” He grins.
“Well, I am. I don’t know if I should round up or down, so I just say my real height.”
“I think you’re clinging to that half,” he teases.
I stick out my tongue. “How tall are you, Mr. Tall Guy?”
“Six-two. Point two five.”
I bump him with my shoulder as we reach a gorgeous wood-carved staircase. Then I bring our joined hands out in front of me. His hand is big, the fingers long, his skin still tanned, as if he spends every day on a pool deck in the Hamptons. There are several scars across his knuckles and the back of his hand.
Just as I’m daydreaming about kissing them, he brings our hands up higher, planting a feathery kiss on my knuckles.
He smiles. “You have little hands.”
“You have big ones.”
I give him what I know is an awkward look as we start down the stairs. Our footsteps are the only sound—at least I think that’s true until we get closer to the first floor and I start hearing living sounds: footsteps, quiet chatter, the creak of a door.
“So the staff is back.”