Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Take care of him.
What was he doing?
What had he been thinking, crawling into the man’s bed and curling against him for comfort like some kind of small child?
Maybe he could blame it on the alcohol.
And order Forsythe not to ever speak a word about this again.
“Young Master,” Forsythe said smoothly, his voice so close Ash nearly jumped when he hadn’t heard him come back into the room at all, soundless as a cat.
He flushed hotly and peered over his bare arm. Forsythe stood in the door with one of Ash’s suits draped over one arm, a long linen napkin folded over the other, a tray balanced in both hands, piled with croissants dripping with melted blue cheese and what looked like slivers of beef. It smelled at once mouthwatering and nauseating, when his head was on fire again and his blood alcohol content was low enough to make him want to puke. He eyed Forsythe, then grumbled and buried his face into the pillow again.
“…I guess I can’t tell you to get out when it’s your room.”
“And my bed,” Forsythe replied archly. “At least you had the decency to be clothed this time.”
“I wasn’t going to get into your bed naked!”
Forsythe said nothing. Ash risked another peek over his arm, but Forsythe was still only watching him with that immovable calm, one sardonic brow arched, completely unreadable.
While Ash was trying not to think about getting into Forsythe’s bed naked when he still remembered how the man tasted.
Like still-burning embers on his tongue, scorching into him without end.
That flush seared deeper until he felt on fire from inside, and he pressed his cheek against his arm, clearing his throat. “…anyway.” He wasn’t talking about this. Wasn’t thinking about it, or the fact that he knew the feeling of the broad, taut muscles of Forsythe’s back moving underneath his palms, his cheek, with every slow inhalation and exhalation.
“If you would like to sit up,” Forsythe said, “you may eat, and then you should dress so that we might be on our way.”
“Another day of contracts?”
“And quite a few phone calls.”
“Great.”
Sighing, Ash pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard, taking in the room while Forsythe settled the tray across his lap. He’d never been in any of the servants’ quarters throughout the house, let alone any of those adjoining the master suites, unless he had tumbled through them as a child and just forgotten the memory. This house had never really felt like home, not when he’d been sent off to Liverpool and boarding school so young, but even after barely more than a day Forsythe had added a few touches that made the room feel lived in, when so much of the echoing mansion didn’t. A plaid casual shirt draped over a rattan chair, shoes lined up neatly just outside the closet, several ties laid over the bureau, cufflinks shining in a tray. Books lined on the top row of a shelf, the other shelves empty but several neatly labeled cardboard boxes stacked underneath. Ash squinted, leaning forward a little, trying to read the gilded spines; what did Forsythe like to rea—
“Young Master Ashton.” Forsythe cleared his throat pointedly. “You are not eating.”
Ash jerked his gaze back, wide-eyed, then ducked his head and picked up one of the croissants. “…sorry,” he mumbled, then took a bite—only to nearly moan as marinated beef and blue cheese and buttery croissant practically melted on his tongue. “Oh my God,” he managed around another mouthful. “Richard made this?”
“Please do not talk with your mouth full. It’s unseemly.” Forsythe’s lips thinned as he bent to lay the linen napkin precisely along the side of Ash’s tray. Sheepishly, Ash picked up the napkin and wiped at his mouth, catching Forsythe’s gaze sidelong. “And no. He did not. He wanted to feed you some sort of gluten-free claptrap, and I decided otherwise. He was rather incensed.”
Ash made himself swallow before he let himself smile. “Richard mostly cooks to feed himself. I’m never here, and Dad usually eats—”
He caught himself on the present tense, heart sinking. Fuck. He stared down at his tray, then made himself take another bite of croissants that suddenly had no taste at all.
At least Forsythe had the tact not to say anything.
And Ash suddenly didn’t want to talk.
It was an odd twenty minutes, spent eating breakfast in Forsythe’s bed while the man moved about the room, laying out Ash’s clothing on the foot of the bed and tidying his own personal effects in silence. Ash took that time to study him surreptitiously from under his lashes, distracting himself from his morbid thoughts. Forty-eight hours and Forsythe had already invaded his life, taken it over, twisted it up, and Ash was still trying to find balance and figure the man out. Nothing about him made sense. From how easily he’d accepted the job to the way he always seemed to anticipate Ash’s every need to why he hadn’t even asked about Ash crawling into his bed.