Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131651 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 658(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Couldn’t you just keep it?”
I smile.
“I could, but there are a lot of risks attached. Inspections, security, special cleaning. I can’t see myself living anywhere fancy enough to have a sprinkler system in case there was a fire. I’d probably have to keep your dad on payroll just to guard it. And he’s way too expensive for my blood.”
“Aw, yeah. He’s really sharp.” She bites her lip, mulling it over. “But still. You’d get to tell people you’ve got the Hera Egg. Everyone would be jealous.”
“Oh, no doubt. But some people might get so jealous they’d try to take it away, too.”
Her forehead wrinkles, an expression that looks too serious for her young face. “People would do that?”
“Unfortunately. Some people suck,” I say heavily.
“Yeah, they do!” She points past the stairs to the library. “I remember this place from last time. That nice lawyer lady was here.”
“This is where I’d spend most of my time with my granddad. He’d work and I’d draw, whenever I wasn’t piling in with my cousins for story time.”
“You draw?”
I nod.
She spins around in place once we’re inside, taking in the huge fireplace and the big heavy desk that’ll be mine once this is all said and done.
“I love reading so much,” she says. “Movies too, but mostly documentaries.”
“I liked anime when I was your age.”
“You don’t now?”
I shrug. “Not enough time to keep up. The fandom’s like ten times bigger and there are so many series.”
Losing interest, she takes the lead in exploring the rest of the house. I trail along behind her. I love how she’s having the best time, feeding her imagination.
The more house she sees, the more convinced she is that it nails Beauty and the Beast vibes. I can’t say she’s wrong.
And my brain can’t stop going to obvious places it shouldn’t.
If I’m Belle, what does that make Holden?
I don’t know how much I mind it, either.
With how grumpy and short-fused he is… he’s just slightly less hairy from the real deal.
After we’ve walked the whole house to make sure there are no cupboards leading to Narnia, secret doors, or slowly decaying roses, we head back down to find her father. He’s in the study, working on his laptop.
The man never stops.
“There’s a monster loose in the west wing,” I inform him blandly as we enter the room. “Big, bad-tempered, and prone to locking helpless ladies up until they start to like him.”
His eyes narrow at me as Kit giggles.
“Do I even want to know?”
“Beauty and the Beast,” I tell him. “Uncultured swine.”
He just grunts and looks back at his screen, but his lips turn up. “I take it you girls had a good time wandering around?”
“Yes. This place is huge. It doesn’t even need any secret passages to be all mysterious. You’re so lucky you get to work here, Dad.” Kit climbs into one of the leather chairs on the other side of the desk. “But Cleo said she couldn’t show me the egg without your permission.”
Holden glances back up at me quickly. “It’s not there for you to gawk at, Kit.”
“Yeah, but this is, like, historically significant. Culturally significant. You shouldn’t keep it from the masses. That’s what Miss Cleo said she wants to do with it.”
“Once we’ve found a museum, I promise I’ll get you a VIP pass.” I shake my head at her fondly.
“Anyway, I’m starving. Couldn’t finish the grilled cheese Grammy made for lunch. She burned it really bad,” she says.
“Soon. Give me a minute,” he grumbles, closing his laptop.
“Don’t pretend like you didn’t see that coming,” I say. “It’s definitely dinnertime.”
“Not you, too? When I brought my daughter, I didn’t expect you’d both gang up on me so fast.”
I grin. “Then I guess you better stop working and feed us.”
“Women,” he mutters, leaving the room as Kit and I laugh.
While he gets prepped in the kitchen, I grab my sketchbook and head for the great room.
Kit follows me. She brought along a backpack stuffed with books she stacks up on the table, but when she sees my sketchbook, she stops cold.
“Whoa, that’s legit. When you said you drew, I didn’t know you meant serious drawing.”
“I’m an artist,” I say shyly. My pride conflicts with my self-consciousness.
No matter how true that statement might be, I feel like I’m barely one step above true obscure starving artist status.
I’ve had my pieces in exhibitions. I’ve even sold custom creations to line the homes of McMansions, sure, but it still feels wrong to claim the title when I’m a tiny minnow in a great big pool of better talent.
Honestly, though, branding might be half the battle in this field.
“Can I see some of your stuff?”
“Sure.” I glance into the kitchen, where Holden sets ingredients neatly on the counter. Like always, when he cooks, he’s in his own little world.