Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(41)

I’m looking out the windows as we pass them, rubbing my fingers over my phone, inside my purse, when Liam’s hand grabs my free one. His long, warm fingers twine through mine. He gives my hand a little squeeze. I look up at him, surprised anew by our height difference.

“You’re tall.”

He smirks. “You’re short.”

“How tall are you?”

“How tall are you?”

“Smartass.” I give his hand a playful squeeze. “I’m five-foot-three and a half.”

“And a half?” He grins.

“Well, I am. I don’t know if I should round up or down, so I just say my real height.”

“I think you’re clinging to that half,” he teases.

I stick out my tongue. “How tall are you, Mr. Tall Guy?”

“Six-two. Point two five.”

I bump him with my shoulder as we reach a gorgeous wood-carved staircase. Then I bring our joined hands out in front of me. His hand is big, the fingers long, his skin still tanned, as if he spends every day on a pool deck in the Hamptons. There are several scars across his knuckles and the back of his hand.

Just as I’m daydreaming about kissing them, he brings our hands up higher, planting a feathery kiss on my knuckles.

He smiles. “You have little hands.”

“You have big ones.”

I give him what I know is an awkward look as we start down the stairs. Our footsteps are the only sound—at least I think that’s true until we get closer to the first floor and I start hearing living sounds: footsteps, quiet chatter, the creak of a door.

“So the staff is back.”

He nods.

I only have a moment in the lavish hallway the stairs brought us to—it’s at least two-stories tall, decorated by elaborate woven rugs, a wall adorned with knight-like armor, and a bunch of animal heads—before he tugs me toward a little enclave where I see a big, worn leather backpack propped against a small door.

Liam drops my hand, throws the pack over his shoulder, and opens the door for me. And then we’re outside in the light, cool air, the sunlight making me squint. Liam’s hand is at the small of my back.

“Forget your sunglasses?”

“I did. I guess I left them in my rental car.”

His fingers rub my back. “I’ve got an extra pair.”

“Do you really?” I ask as he kneels and opens his pack.

He pulls out two cases, handing me a pair of what turn out to be Ray-Ban Aviators. He’s wearing his own pair.

“Are these your booty call Aviators?”

“My what?”

“You know, for your lady friends,” I tell him as I follow him through the bright green grass.

He gives me a serious look. “You’re not a booty call, Lucille.”

“I can’t believe you used that awful, ugly name.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Hell no I don’t. It’s an old woman name. It reminds me of Lucille Bluth. Do you know who that is?”

“Of course.” He smiles.

“You do?”

“I watch TV, Lucille.”

“You better watch yourself, or I’ll start calling you Willahelm.”

“You know my name.”

“I totally do.”

“You’re making fun of it.” He wraps an arm around me, pulling me close as we approach a little bridge over the stream.

“Lucille and Willahelm.” I lean into him as we walk. “I think it fits.”

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then nods ahead, to a huge, stone building shaped like a box. “We’re headed to the stables. That okay with you?”

“Of course.”

“I thought we could ride down to the beach.”

“Perfect,” I tell him, even as my stomach somersaults up through my head, then plummets down into my thighs somewhere.

“I had the staff pack food and wet suits.”

“Wow—is it that cold?”

He nods. “The water here is always cold.”

We’re met at the entrance to the stable by a middle-aged woman in a pale gray uniform. She wears her hair in dreads and has a friendly smile.

“I’ve got Peg and Eeyore ready for you.”

“Thanks, Sara.”

She nods, and disappears behind a big, wood door.

“Does she manage the stables?” I ask as I follow Liam down a hay-scattered hallway.

“Yeah. Her father did before her.”

I’m going to ask more questions, but I’m mesmerized by all the horses we’re passing.

“You have a beautiful stable. One of every kind almost,” I marvel.

“You know we breed them.”

“Yeah. I heard that.”

“My horse, Pegasus, is a white—well, gray—Arabian. You’ll be riding Eeyore, an Anglo-Arab.”

“Is that a cross between an Arabian and…a Thoroughbred?”

He nods.

“What color is—”

I stop as we reach a holding pen where I see a large white-gray Arabian with an eventing-style saddle and a gorgeous, chestnut brown horse that must be Eeyore; he’s saddled similarly.

“Wow. I feel like that’s all I say here.” I laugh.