Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I keep driving.
When we pull through the gates of the Providence estate, she's still mostly unconscious. I kill the engine and circle to her side, lifting her out carefully. She doesn't wake. Just curls into my chest like she belongs there.
I carry her through the house, past the library she designed, up the stairs to the second-floor master bath.
The space is all marble and glass—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the expansive lawn that ends with Narragansett Bay, rainfall shower, soaking tub big enough for four people.
I set Emmaleen down on the velvet bench near the tub and turn to draw the bath. Hot water pounds into pristine white porcelain while I adjust the temperature.
When I turn back, she's awake—barely—watching me with heavy-lidded eyes and a sleepy smile.
I reach for her, starting to peel Lorcan's oversized shirt off her body.
She giggles.
Then her hands are on my suit jacket, tugging it off my shoulders with surprising coordination for someone half-asleep. The jacket hits the floor. Her fingers find my tie next, working the knot loose.
I allow it.
Might even enjoy how she cheekily gets me out of my dark suit—the vest, the shirt, the belt. Her movements are playful, unburdened by protocol, or demerits, or the weight of performing.
When we're both naked, I step into the tub first and extend my hand.
She takes it without hesitation, climbing in and settling back against my chest with a contented sigh.
I smile and wrap my arms around her.
We sit there in the steam and silence, her body fitting perfectly against mine.
After a few minutes, I reach for the soap and begin washing my Little Miss Take. Slow, methodical strokes down her arms, across her shoulders. Washing away Lorcan's scent, his touch, his claim.
Emmaleen perks up slightly, head tilting back to look at me.
"Did you know," she begins, voice still sleepy but gaining energy, "that there's a conspiracy theory that marsupials actually came from South America? Like, they think the common ancestor migrated through Antarctica when it wasn't frozen yet, which is wild because—"
I smile.
Listen to her ramble about continental drift and marsupial migration patterns while I wash her fingers.
She cycles into another tangent—this time about the history of baseball, which she launches into with absolutely no preamble or explanation for why the fuck we're talking about it now.
"—and Babe Ruth's called shot is actually super controversial because some historians think he was just pointing at the pitcher, not predicting the home run, but then again his stats that season were insane—714 career home runs, which stood for almost forty years until Hank Aaron—"
I can't help it. I chuckle against her wet hair.
She quotes statistics. Actual numbers. For a sport I'm fairly certain she's never watched in her life.
It's fucking absurd.
And I can't live without it.
My hands slide down her arms, washing away the last traces of Lorcan's touch while she continues without pause.
"—so vinyl records actually have grooves that correspond to the sound waves, right? Like the needle literally vibrates based on the physical shape carved into the plastic, which is why audiophiles insist they sound better than digital because there's no compression, no data loss, just pure analog reproduction of the original recording—"
I press my lips to her shoulder.
She doesn't even pause.
"—and fun fact, the first record player was invented by Thomas Edison in 1877, but it used cylinders instead of discs, and the quality was garbage because the needles were so heavy they'd literally destroy the recording after like ten plays—"
"Emmaleen," I murmur against her skin.
"—which is why Emile Berliner's gramophone was revolutionary because flat discs could be mass-produced and the needles were lighter so you could actually listen to music more than once without ruining it—"
"Miss Take."
She stops.
Tilts her head back to look at me, water droplets clinging to her eyelashes.
"Yeah?"
I study her face—flushed from the heat, eyes bright despite her exhaustion, lips curved in that unconscious smile she wears when she's happy.
"Keep going," I tell her quietly.
Her smile widens.
And she launches immediately into something about the invention of the safety pin.
I hold her closer and let her words wash over me like the steam rising from the bath.
After nearly an hour of soaking, I step out of the tub and wrap Emmaleen in a towel—thick Egyptian cotton, soft enough that she sighs against the fabric.
I lift her easily, carrying her into the massive walk-in closet. The space is absurd—big enough to be classified as a two-bedroom apartment. Custom shelving lines every wall. My suits organized by shade on one side. Her side a riot of color and texture.
She collects vintage outfits now. Not because she admires the fashion of times gone by—I'm fairly certain Emmaleen Rourke has no idea what the word fashion even means. She collects them to punish me when I come home from work at an unreasonable hour.
She will not sleep until I'm home. So she passes the time playing dress up.