Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(19)

“And a fine good morning to you, too, Mr. Boudreaux,” I said sweetly. “I see you’re in your usual sunshine-and-rainbows mood. Did you misplace your human pills again?”

His lips tightened.

On my other side, I felt Rayford trying to stifle a laugh.

Jackson stepped back and swung the door wide, a silent command to exit.

I kept my expression neutral when he surprised me by offering me his hand. I grasped it gingerly, half expecting him to crush my fingers in his giant fist. His grip was firm and steadying, not crushing at all, though my fingers were swallowed by the sheer size of his rough paw.

As soon as I’d gotten on my feet, he dropped my hand like it had burned him. Then he turned and disappeared into the house without a word.

Exasperated, I said to Rayford, “Is he always this charming?”

Rayford smiled at me. He looked a little sad. “Not everyone has the gift of the gab, Miss.” Looking at the empty doorway, he added, “And if you’re treated like a stray dog long enough, you start to believe it and act like one.”

With that mysterious statement, he turned and followed his employer into the house, leaving me standing in the driveway wondering exactly what I’d gotten myself into.





EIGHT

BIANCA

If I thought the exterior of Rivendell was something, the interior literally had me gaping.

Huge marble sculptures scattered everywhere: check.

Priceless oil paintings from French and Italian masters: check.

Ballroom, billiard room, indoor theatre: check, check, and check.

I’d never seen anything like it. Or been inside a house so bone-chillingly cold.

“I should’ve brought a sweater,” I said to Rayford as I walked beside him, shivering. Our every footstep echoed off the walls before dying into ghostly silence. I had the oddest feeling of being inside a crypt.

“You get used to it,” said Rayford. “The heat’s always on, but marble’s real stubborn about warmin’ up, and this time of year we get a cold breeze comin’ off the water, which doesn’t help. The kitchen’s better.”

We passed another enormous room that appeared to be a formal dining room, with a polished oak table the length of a landing strip. Then we arrived at the library, and I almost wet myself in excitement.

“Holy Christmas!” I said, stopping short to stare.

Rayford chuckled. “Told you we had a lot of books.”

A lot didn’t even begin to cover it. The library was three stories tall, capped with a vaulted ceiling painted with reproductions of the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Chandeliers sparkled overhead. A huge marble fireplace yawned wide at one end of the room. A comfy-looking overstuffed sofa and chairs beckoned from a corner. And everywhere I looked, there were books. Stuffed into cases that scaled the walls, stacked in piles on enormous coffee tables, leather-bound spines glinting with gold script. Every one looked like a first edition. My fingers itched to touch them all.

From behind me a voice said, “Do you read?”

Of course it was Jackson. No one else could make that sound as if my literacy were in question.

“I’ve been known to,” I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from all the treats calling me so bewitchingly. Distracted and in awe, I added, “Just before he died, my father asked me what I thought heaven was like. I told him heaven was a library that had a lot of comfortable chairs, good lighting, and every book ever written. If I lived here, I’d spend all my time in this room.”

There was a short pause, then Jackson slowly moved into my peripheral vision. Thick scruff on his jaw, thick hair in need of a barber, thick head probably full of the howls of his woodland kin.

“That explains your interesting cocktail menu,” he said, his voice gruff.

I turned my head to look at him. “Interesting? Not pretentious?”

He met my gaze. His blue eyes didn’t look quite as steely as usual. In fact, they could almost be described as warm.

He said, “It’s only pretentious if you’re faking it.” He considered me in silence for a moment, his gaze piercing. “So the classics are your favorite?”

He was referring to my cocktail menu again, which, in addition to Romeo and Julep and The Last of the Mojitos, included other literary-inspired libations like Tequila Mockingbird and Huckleberry Sin. And yes, they were all inspired by classic books.

“The classics were my father’s favorites,” I said quietly. “I created the cocktail menu in honor of him.”

Because I was looking right into his eyes, I saw the brief flicker of regret there.

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s because you didn’t bother to ask.”