I looked to my phone and even checked it.
I hadn’t had a call or text from Dair since last night.
He was coming to the realization he’d dodged a bullet.
Good for him.
God!
“I’m not going to fucking cry again,” I bit out as I pushed up from the chair.
I stomped to my room where I changed from my slippers to my Jimmy Choo, knit, pearly, lace up sneakers.
I then stomped down to the kitchen to tell Christine I was going for a walk.
She lit up. “Breath of fresh air, even in this mist, will do you a world of good, me darlin’.”
And yes.
I’d been holed up in the house since I got back to it.
Therefore, I resumed my stomping, this time to the mudroom where I tugged on Mum’s Max Mara poncho style raincoat (which was sublime, and totally not going on the auction block).
And I headed outside, through the gardens, to the fields beyond, in my state, not oblivious to the dense fog, but instead, welcoming it.
Cathy and Heathcliff never got together.
And now I understood perfectly why he brooded on those moors.
Chapter 22
Wet Leaves
Blake
* * *
Shit.
“Am I fucking lost?” I asked the misty fog that was hiding the huge-ass house I should be able to see from here. Surely.
I was giving myself one hell of a moisture facial out in this weather.
But for goodness sake, I’d turned back at least half an hour ago, and by now I should be seeing the house forming through the fog.
This just cut it.
Lose my shot at love and life and children with a man who unbuckled my shoes and took them off for me, then die of exposure maybe a hundred yards from my ancestral home.
“I hope Rix doesn’t mind being daddy to the next Marquess of Norton,” I muttered into the mist. “Or Marchioness.”
I kept tromping, pretty sure my cute Jimmy Choos were a loss to the mud and wet, also realizing I chose poorly with footwear, considering the cold and wet was oozing through the knit.
And as I walked, I saw a figure forming in the mist coming toward me.
Oh God.
How embarrassing was this?
