Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(39)

Quinn steps inside the front entry to the cottage—she’s right, the name is possibly the biggest goddamn understatement in history—like she’s entering a castle, or a cathedral. The brickwork and the soaring windows contribute to the effect, and so does the fact that the staff has lined up in the foyer to greet us.

It’s not a large staff, but Quinn’s eyes widen nonetheless.

“This is Robert, the chef,” I say, introducing her to the stocky man who is dark and handsome, although not very tall. He shakes Quinn’s hand with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Rosemary, the housekeeper.” Rosemary steps forward, her grandmotherly vibe putting Quinn at ease. “We also have a gardener who’s here three days a week, and of course you know Louis.” At that moment, Louis appears from a side entrance carrying two suitcases, then disappears up the grand staircase with a nod.

“Rosemary, Robert, this is Quinn.”

“I’m so—I’m so pleased to meet you,” Quinn says, blushing a little. She must feel out of her element, to let a little thing like meeting my staff throw her off. This is nothing—nothing—like the apartment I took her to. That might as well be a hotel for all the personality it has.

“Lovely to meet you, as well,” Rosemary replies in return, beaming at Quinn. “She’s lovely, Mr. Pierce.”

“Thank you, Rosemary,” I say, and then, with a nod, I let them go back to their business.

Robert lingers for one more moment. “I have a late dinner prepared for the both of you, Mr. Pierce. Would you like Rosemary to bring it up to your suite in about an hour?”

“Wonderful.”

“Excellent,” Robert says, then turns on his heel and hurries back in the general direction of the kitchen.

Alone at last, I turn to Quinn, who’s still gazing around her like she’s in a foreign country. “Would you like a tour?”

“Yes,” she says with a definitive nod. “I have got to see this place. This is incredible.”

I show her the formal dining room, which has a table large enough to seat twenty-four people, the downstairs library, and the formal living room. We peek into the kitchen, where Robert is busy putting the finishing touches on our meal, and Quinn glances across at me. “Those are some seriously fancy appliances.”

I shrug. “My father had them installed just before he and my mother got divorced. She liked to moonlight as a baker when she wasn’t attending charity events and fighting with him about how much he liked to party with his friends.”

“Is that where you get it from?”

She’s teasing, but something twists in my chest.

Because the truth is….the truth is…

I pull myself back from the brink. No. Now is not the moment to try and bring that up. The weekend is just beginning. Our relationship is just beginning. It’s going to be f*cking crucial not to be too hasty.

“Come on,” I say, tilting my head back toward the main part of the house. “There’s a lot more to see.”

Upstairs, I lead her down the hallway to the master suite—another understatement. There are eleven guest rooms, but the master suite—the rooms I occupy whenever I’m here—includes a massive bedroom, two walk-in closets, a den, and a small study.

“Holy shit,” Quinn says, her voice almost a whisper, as I push the door and it swings open noiselessly on its hinges.

Unlike my apartment, this room is full of personal things.

“So, this is my room.”

“Your room.”

“My rooms.”

Family photos appear on almost every shelf, and the decorator I hired incorporated lot of smaller touches—my college degree, framed, hangs between two bookshelves, the armchair sitting underneath it practically begs you to put your feet up. My books occupy most of the other shelf space.

Something in Quinn’s face shifts as she sees it all, and like a moth drawn to a light, she moves away from me and toward all the things out in front of her in plain sight.

Right away Quinn notices a shelf filled with leather-bound journals at waist level behind the armchair. “Christian,” she says, with a note of wonder in her voice. “Do you keep a diary?”

“I kept journals,” I say, grinning at her, but then the words stick in my throat. What the hell should I say now that won’t give me away? My heart skips, wrenches. Why is it like this? Why is it that one moment I’m fine, enjoying her company, letting this unfold how it’s going to unfold, and then the next minute I’m seized by such a frigid dread that it almost takes my breath away?

You want this.

The thought floats up into my mind. It’s true. I want her. I want all of her. Now, tomorrow, forever.

We just have to get there.

Carefully.

Carefully.

She doesn’t notice when the smile falls away from my face. She’s too busy looking at the first editions of the classics on the rest of the shelves.

“Damn,” she says quietly.

“There’s more in the den, if you’re interested.”

She turns back to me, and flicks the tip of her tongue out to lick her lips. “You know,” she says, “I seem to remember Robert saying Rosemary would be up in an hour. How long do we have left?”

I glance down at my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”