Before Luca’s accident, I was an adventurous, fun-loving person. If there was a party or social gathering, you could be assured I would be the first person there. Well, not first, as everyone knows it’s more fashionable to be late than early, but you get what I mean. I lost part of who I was when Luca’s life perished way too early. With Alex’s help, I’m rediscovering who I’ve always wanted to be.
Incapable of ignoring Alex’s flopped head and lowered lip for a second longer, I breathe out an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call his head of security before we take off.” When he gives me a flirty wink, announcing my pledge of assistance will be well-rewarded, I forewarn, “But don’t get your hopes up. I’ll need to give Hunter way more than a smile to get him to agree to this.”
My tease has the effect I am aiming for when Alex grumbles under his breath. He does the same thing anytime he’s jealous. His inaudible grumbles remind me of Muttely, the cartoon dog fromWacky Races. It’s cute and endearing, enough to send any girl’s pulse racing, even while she’s in the process of facing her worst fears head on.
10
“Peanuts,” Regan hisses under her breath for the fifth time since we disembarked the plane and entered our rental car. “Peanuts.”
She stops fastening her seat belt, her narrowed eyes straying to mine when I say, “You could have had pretzels.”
She doesn’t find my humor amusing. The heavy groove that settled between her brows when I told her we were flying economy remains as strong as ever. I didn’t refuse the travel agent’s offer of an upgrade for no reason. I did it to settle Regan into normality before she hits the streets of suburbia. She might have grown up on a farm, but Regan is as glamorous as they come. If the price tags on the unworn dresses she packed “just in case” are anything to go by, she left the norm a very long time ago.
Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love who she is—sparkling dresses and all—but she won’t get that here. Here, she’ll get a belly full of food and a heart full of love. Everything else stops at the door. It’s real. It’s gritty. It’s the Rogers way.
* * *
Regan wiggles in her seat the next thirty miles, her senses shifting into high gear the more unpopulated the streets become. She won’t find the farm she is seeking—just a hidden pocket of perfection on the outskirts of Washington DC. My childhood home has been in my family for decades. It’s been handed down generation after generation—just like my job title.
“Wow.” Regan’s breath expels without the quiver her jaw has had since we exited the tarmac at Ravenshoe Airstrip.
After taking in the swinging sign advising we’ve arrived at The Manor B&B, she shifts her eyes my way. “Never took you as a bed and breakfast traveler. Sleazy two star motels seem more your style.” A frisky wink accompanies her slam.
“Up to your standards?” A wicked smile crosses my lips.
She sucks in a wild breath before nodding. “Very much so.”
I’ve barely come to a stop at the end of a long driveway when Regan pops open her door. Her hand protects her eyes from the late afternoon sun so they can absorb the pre-war features of concrete and stone. The entire lower level of The Manor is constructed with Braddock’s rock, dug from a quarry not far from here. Each piece was carefully selected to ensure it fit with the previously set rocks.
The veins of earthy red tones throughout the rock contrast against the white shutters and restored timbers of the top floor, making The Manor one of the most architecturally sought-after homes designed in the pre-war era. It is a house you’d expect to find in the countryside in the United Kingdom. The big, expansive verandas are a testament to the man who built the home—as are the current owners.
“Have you stayed here before?” Regan asks, her voice picking up suspicion from the valet greeting me by name.
My shoulder touches my ear when I shrug. “A few times.”
I curl my hand around Regan’s before climbing the eight stairs separating the footpath from the full-length patio numerous guests are putting to good use. Grayson leans against the railing, his gaze wide with amusement as he eyeballs our approach. He’s my eldest brother. The deal maker. The deadly marksman. The all-round playboy. He has the same rugged grin as me, carved facial features hidden by a few days’ growth, and an appreciative eye for fine ladies.
His long gaze at Regan’s svelte frame leaves no doubt to my last confession. Grayson’s interests are piqued, but not enough for him to leave his mark.Someone else must have his attention.
Placing my hand on the curve of Regan’s back, I guide her toward the side entrance of The Manor, barely saving her from the quirk of Grayson’s curious brow. He was happy appraising her from afar until I blew the calm, collective ruse I was working with by placing my hands on Regan. Now he’s shadowing us into the private entrance of our home, his interest as notable as Regan’s.
“Don’t we need to check in?” Regan asks, stunned I’ve guided her into the core of The Manor via the back entrance.
Before I can answer her, a loud squeal pierces my ears. “Alex! What the bloody hell are you doing here?! I thought you weren’t due home until Christmas!”
Darcy, all one hundred and ten pounds of her, darts off a stool at the kitchen island to head my way. Regan’s eyes, which were back to their normal width seconds ago, narrow when Darcy leaps into my arms and plants her lips on my cheek. She is so excited to see me again, she’s failed to notice Regan standing beside me. It’s probably for the best. If she catches sight of the death stare Regan is giving her, she may not survive its wrath.
The longer I return Darcy’s embrace, the tighter I have to grip Regan’s hand. She appears two seconds from running, and she isn’t even halfway into the series of surprises I have planned for her.
After placing Darcy back onto her feet, I jerk Regan forward until she is once again standing at my side. She stops taking in Darcy’s bare feet, short denim shorts, and midriff top when I say, “Darcy, this is my girlfriend, Regan.” Regan’s screwed up nose from me calling her my girlfriend smooths when I quickly add on, “Regan, this is my baby sister, Darcy.”
Regan’s eyes rocket to mine, certain she heard me wrong. She didn’t. Even with her British accent in full swing, Darcy has the same sandy hair as mine, bright blue eyes, and mischievous grin.
The grin announces she has finally noticed Regan’s scowl. She’s more amused by it than disgusted.
“Darcy is an actress. She’s preparing for a role, hence the accent.”
Air evicts from my lungs when Darcy backhands my chest. “I’m anactor.” She says her last word sharply. “There is no discrimination inmyfield of expertise.” She doesn’t need to spell out what her remark means. She loathes my family lineage as much as my mother does.
