Cold Wood (Winter Warmers), page 6
She mumbles something, burrowing deeper into her coat. There’s a patch of drool on her shoulder, and her cheeks are flushed from the warm room.
Fuck. No, I must not find the paparazzi cute.
“Hello?” I shake her again, a little harder. “Madam. If you do not wake up, I will alert security.” It’s an empty threat, but she doesn’t know that.
A tiny frown wrinkles her forehead. And two big, blue eyes flutter open, gazing blearily up at me.
Jesus. My heart lurches in my chest. The floor rocks under me, and my stomach swoops as her plump lips part.
She’s fucking gorgeous. A heart attack on legs.
“Who…” The woman’s voice is crackly. Rough from sleep. “Who the hell are you?”
… She’s American. That’s new.
I clear my throat, pulse racing under my skin. Her scent… it’s muddling my thoughts. Heating my blood and making my heart pound. Distracting me from how ridiculous her question is.
Who am I?
There are a lot of ways I could answer her question. I could declare myself a duke and puff up my chest, reciting endless stupid titles. I could roll my eyes and refuse to answer at all. Or I could tell her I’m the man having the worst fucking day; the man who just staggered through a freak snowstorm; the man who can’t think straight now he’s seen her pretty eyes.
I settle on: “I’m Theo. You’re in my house.”
The woman snorts and peers around. “House? Yeah, right. And the Statue of Liberty is a paperweight.”
I don’t have time for this. I want to eat; want to see to my staff. Want to numb this God-awful day with a glass of whiskey. So I’m harsher than I mean to be when I bark, “Press is not permitted on the estate. You are trespassing, madam.”
“Press? Madam?” The woman straightens on the bench, fumbling to sit upright. “Excuse you. I am neither of those things.”
Perhaps she’s right. She’s young—mid twenties, maybe. Fresh faced and bright and so surly when she first wakes up that despite myself, I’m charmed.
“Your camera—” Perkins begins, but the woman huffs and leans down to snatch it from the bag. She thumbs the screen on, then turns it around for me to inspect. We glare at it together, me still looming over her with one hand on the bench, as she flicks through photo after photo of the gallery.
Paintings and statues. A series of the frescoed ceiling. There are an awful lot of my ancestor, his scowl boring into me from her camera screen, but nothing private. Nothing lurid. Finally, the photos change to another location. A small, dark apartment, where she’s taking a mirror selfie in a brown onesie, reindeer antlers balanced on her head.
My interloper sucks in a sharp breath and snatches the camera away. She turns it off and stuffs it back into her bag, cheeks flaming.
“Happy?” she spits.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say mildly. That reindeer onesie will haunt me, I know it. “Who are you? And why were you asleep in my home?”
“Quinn. And I’m sorry.” She doesn’t sound it. She sounds hot and flustered. “I came here with a tour group and I guess I nodded off—”
“Sir.” Perkins holds up her backpack and spreads it wide. My heart sinks as he shows me what’s tucked beside the camera—a small, sheer bag stuffed with bracelets. They nestle in the fabric, shiny and glittering.
Perkins turns to her with barely disguised glee. “A pickpocket.”
I scrub a hand down my face as she squawks, snatching the backpack away. She zips it up with jerky movements, eyes flashing with anger.
God. I can’t have a thief on the estate. We’re surrounded by priceless things, and I’m responsible for keeping them safe.
“Security will have to watch her,” I tell Perkins, my throat dry. For a moment there, I thought this girl was… well. Something else. “Until the weather clears and the police can get through.”
A small hand grabs my damp sleeve and wrenches me back to face her. More strands of blonde hair have come loose, framing her face, and she looks ready to punch me in the jaw.
“I am not a thief. I make bracelets to sell online. I carry a few with me just in case I can make a sale.” Quinn shoulders her backpack as she speaks, clumsy with anger, her coat bunching up under the straps. “You, on the other hand, are the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. How dare you! A duke? Can’t you afford any freaking humanity?”
Her words sting, but not as badly as watching her turn on her heel and march out of the gallery, her boots smacking against the marble. Carrying her away from me.
“We’re still calling the police!” Perkins calls as we trail after her. Our steps are leisurely; it’s not like she can go anywhere.
“No. Don’t call them,” I murmur. I shove my hands in my pockets as we reach the lobby, watching her tug at the heavy front door.
“But those bracelets—”
“You heard the girl. She made them herself.”
Maybe it’s naive of me. Maybe I’m blinded by her soft beauty and confident accent. But I want to believe the best of Quinn. I want to show some of that humanity she thinks I lack. And when she finally wrenches the door open and stumbles back with a gasp, snowflakes billowing into the lobby, I’m selfishly glad that it’s still storming. She can’t leave just yet.
“Well.” I clap my hands together, suddenly cheerful. “That’s that. Perkins here will show you to your room.”
* * *
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About the Author
Cassie writes outrageous, OTT insta-love with tons of sugar and spice. She loves cookie dough, summer barbecues, and her gorgeous cat Missy.
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Cassie Mint, Cold Wood (Winter Warmers)
