Chapter 13
Transfixed, watching Peter slide the lucky bite of pie from his fork to his tongue, Georgia almost missed his question about her parents. She hid her momentary shock with a sip of her coffee. By the time she lowered the thick-walled cup, her poise and nonchalance led the way onto the mental dance floor.
“My mother left before I was into my teens.” She made a quick-thinking two-step. “But my father is everything you might imagine of the playboy, country-club set.”
Peter hesitated, his fork hovering. She saw the gears turn, knew when he realized he’d purchased clothing for a woman whose parents probably owned polo ponies. “Did he disown you?”
“Well. That’s one way to pound a nail…with a sledgehammer.” A dry chuckle escaped her in response to his bemused frown. “No. I just haven’t come into my money yet.”
And she hadn’t—wouldn’t until she was thirty. Her father gave her a monthly allowance, which met all her needs. During a late-night powwow earlier in the week, she and Sid had decided the best approach to take with any personal questions Peter might ask would be to stick as close as possible to the truth. That way he couldn’t trip her up with difficult-to-remember lies if he became suspicious later.
Peter made a “keep going” motion with his hand as he washed down a mouthful of pie with his coffee. The way his lips pressed against the cup reminded her of how they’d brushed her mouth—dry and sweet—last night. Initially, so different from the way he’d treated her at the gallery, his kiss had stunned her breathless. When he’d yanked off her jeans, she hadn’t thought to fight. Hadn’t wanted to. But then he’d walked away.
“I’m the black sheep,” she said, pulling back from the mire of emotion. “I insisted on going to a real school and shunned the coming-out party.”
“I’m impressed.” Corners of his lips pulling downward, he nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought you came from money.”
She nearly spat out her coffee. A quick swallow had her coughing into her fist.
“My father would be appalled,” she said, breathless, though relieved he hadn’t managed to find similarities between her and her alter ego.
“Do your parents and Gigi’s know one another?” Reaching into his back pocket, Peter leaned forward and drew out his wallet.
“They run in the same circles.” And they did, didn’t they? Being one and the same?
Her conscience twinged at the fib. Everything Peter had shown her in the last twenty-four hours proved him a great deal more complex and compassionate than she’d thought him when she’d met him at the charity gala.
“Well, that explains why you’re so close.” He withdrew several crisp bills and placed them under his coffee cup. “That and going to school together.”
Georgia made an affirmative noise and shoveled a few more bites of the pie into her mouth to avoid comment. The intensity of his stare unsettled her, and she slowly lowered her fork. Eyeing his empty plates, not remembering when he’d eaten all the food, she cleared her throat. A crowd stood at the door waiting for tables to open up.
“Ready to leave?” she asked.
“I can wait.” He nodded at her plate. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”
She patted her stomach. “I’m full of pie.”
Her conspiratorial response brought the flirty smile back to his lips. “I won’t tell my mother if you won’t tell.”
The mere idea of having a mother who would care what Georgia ate for breakfast intensified the longing that had been slowly building in her since meeting his family.
She pushed back from the table and groped for her coat rather than meet Peter’s eyes. “I like your mother. A lot.”
“You’d like her a lot less if she were taking a wooden spoon to your ass, believe me.” He reached for her coat to assist her, and she let him.
Memories of Peter’s whispered threat yesterday in the clothing shop sent blood to her sex. With exaggerated slowness, she looked over her shoulder at him and let him see the desire in her eyes.
Fingers lingering on her shoulders, he squinted. “I sincerely hope if that’s your kink, you aren’t picturing my mother in my place.”
Images of herself over Peter’s lap, his hand cupped against her bottom, sent a frisson of awareness up her spine. She stepped forward, out of his immediate proximity. He lifted his coat and followed her to the door.
Cold air hit her overheated skin, and she stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Who said I’d be the one with the smacked bottom?”
His expression darkened, and he took a step toward her, keys in his fist. She put her back to the car. He didn’t come any closer, just regarded her with an intensity that had her stomach whirling like a gyroscope. Frozen breath puffed in little clouds, hers coming faster than his. A lot faster.
A shout sounded in the distance. Georgia looked toward the noise. Several blocks away, she made out a hill with colorful forms on sleds swooping over the snow. Trees dotted the rolling landscape but weren’t so frequent as to pose any real hazard to the activity.
When she chanced a peek at Peter, he stared into the distance, a faraway look on his face. “Want to go sledding?”
Disappointment and relief dropped her blood pressure. She sagged against the car door for support. “Er. Sure?”
He took in her jeans and sneakers with a negligent glance. “You’re going to get wet.”
You’ve no bloody idea…
He caught her flitting grin. Slow and cocksure, he smiled in a way that made her breath catch and her heart renew its pounding. When he pivoted and strode toward a hardware store, she followed on unsteady legs.
“Toboggan, sled, or one of those round things?” He pointed to a red thing that looked like an oversize lid to a rubbish bin.
If she chose the toboggan, he’d ride with her… She let her gaze linger on the more expensive leather and wood item before her attention alighted on a box of rolled plastic sheets he’d overlooked. Less than five dollars apiece, they appeared as if they’d hold up to a season’s worth of use but no more.
“How about these?” Plastic slipped against her gloves as she held one aloft.
He eyed the flimsy sled, dubious.
“What? You think you have to spend a Benjamin to have a good time?” she teased.
He plucked the thing from her hands and regarded it with distaste. “You’re aiming for a sore ass all right, but not from anything fun.”
Georgia followed him into the store, another sled in her hand and a smirk on her face. She plunked her sled on the counter as he paid for his. The freckle-faced teen who rang them up either didn’t know or didn’t care that he was ringing up the equivalent of a dime-store toy for one of the world’s wealthiest men. Hell, she ordered a bag lunch for Peter, and it came with real silver much of the time in New York. Getting Peter out of the city was a nice change. Now she’d like to get the city out of Peter.
“Do you ever think it’s strange?” she asked as they trudged toward the snowy hill.
“What’s strange?” Bright blue eyes regarded her.
She studied the slightly reddened tip of his nose and the way the cold brought color to his cheeks. “That you came from a place like this, and you live the way you live?”
His answering huff was uneasy. “I guess. When I have time to think about it.”
“Which is almost never?” She hazarded the guess.
“Honestly?” He gazed into the distance, his expression placing him far away—maybe in another time, if not another place. “I try not to.”
“Hm.” She switched the sled to her other arm so she could warm her opposite hand in her coat pocket. “Same here.”
He frowned down at her. “You try not to think about where you grew up?”
She nodded and kept walking. Why had she told him that? Things were getting dangerously intimate if she’d begun volunteering personal tidbits to this man. The snow, heavy and wet, soaked into her sneakers within minutes of the climb.
“I never thought money could be a burden until I had it.” Poised on the crest of the hill, he paused to wait as a group of teens got set to take a run down the slope. “Now I don’t know how people have kids with money, never mind without it.”
Georgia bent to position her sled. It slid a little, and she stomped one foot on it to hold it in place. The teens whooped as they raced one another over the rolling incline.
“The magic of nannies and boarding school.” Unable to hide the distaste from her voice, she shuddered. “You don’t know how lucky you were. Having your family. Your brothers.”
The comment earned her a noncommittal harrumph as Peter unrolled his sled. Settled on the plastic, they both clutched the curled handles of their own sleds. Her grin was spontaneous. Seeing this grown man—her powerful and often surly boss—perched on a flimsy toy lightened her heart. Giddy laughter burbled past her lips.
“Race you?” He lifted both brows in a mischievous waggle.
“What do I get if I win?” she asked.
His gaze darkened sensually, and he set off without warning.
“Hey! No fair!” she shouted.
She shot after him. Wind whipped at her hair, pulling it from her face as she picked up speed on her descent. What had appeared to be smooth ground under her feet as they walked, abused her backside with each bounce over the packed landscape. She laughed until she couldn’t breathe, and tears streamed from her eyes. Out of control, both she and Peter swooped down the slope, jouncing and swerving. She didn’t have a prayer of winning the race, but she could claim a different sort of victory.
Keeping him in her sights, Georgia angled her sled toward Peter’s back. Though he had a head start, her momentum was stronger toward the end. He slowed to a stop well before she lost power or steam. Angled sideways, she slid into him, pitching them both off their sleds, ass over teakettle, down the remaining slope. They halted as their sleds hurtled past, coming to a stop on the flatter landscape beyond.
When they came to a halt, Peter still clutched her in a protective bear hug. He’d taken the brunt of the damage. They both breathed hard, warm from exertion and proximity. Hair a wild tumble, he stared down at her as cold seeped through her jeans and coat into her back. Hesitant, she skimmed his cheek with the back of her fingers.
“Kiss me?” She needed to know last night hadn’t been an outright rejection.
He searched her gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He lifted her head, cradling her away from the snow. She pulled him down, meeting him halfway. So much more gently than last night’s kiss, he awakened her senses with a brush of his lips. Her eyes fluttered closed with her sigh.
She moved up and into the pressure of his mouth, opening to the dart of his tongue and the taste of maple syrup. He sampled her in lingering, languid sweeps and suckles, prompting little gasps from her. Back arched, she pressed into him, wishing for fewer layers despite the cold. Frostbite didn’t stand a chance against Peter’s heated onslaught.
His hardness settled against her thigh, and her hips shifted of their own accord in a little lift that accompanied her incoherent plea. He wanted her. And God, she wanted him. She moved against him, both arms coming around his neck to pull him closer. A wolf whistle sounded in the distance. Eyes bright with passion, he lifted his head.
“Not here, Georgia.” Her name registered as a growl.
She shuddered and let him help her up. They both brushed at the little ice clumps stuck to their respective clothing. Finished, he turned her around and worked his hand down her back. When he reached her bottom, he gave a few harder-than-necessary swats to remove the snow. Georgia yelped and tried to run, but he held fast to her arm with his opposite hand.
“No fair.” Warmth blossomed across her chilled posterior and drifted lazily toward her sex.
“I don’t play fair.” He turned her and brushed a succulent kiss against her lips. “You should know that by now.”
She pulled back a fraction. “Neither do I.”
He brushed his thumb across her lower lip, tugging the flesh away from her teeth with a sensual pull. “Good thing I always win then.”
The casual statement made her stomach go funny. “Always?”
“Always.” His expression painted him deadly serious.
By the time they reached the car, Georgia shook with a combination of cold and anticipation. Her sex ached until she longed to plow two fingers below the satin fabric of her panties and deliver satisfaction. She had to come down a notch if she were going to be able to think. Aroused, she was off-kilter and apt to say things she’d regret—allow feelings to blossom that should never have taken root in the first place.
She examined Peter’s profile as he drove. Color brightened his cheeks, but except for the telltale bulge in his jeans, she wouldn’t have known she’d affected him at all. The heater ran on full blast, and he’d turned on the seat warmers.
He slid his gaze sideways to take her in. “We’ll get you a warm shower, then visit with my family.”
It was past eleven by the time he pulled the car into the drive. Cold wind she hadn’t noticed earlier whipped at her, cutting through her jeans. The temperature was dropping and quickly.
“Good Lord,” she said through chattering teeth as Peter held the boathouse door open for her. A sheen of ice crackled across the water in the empty bay.
“I told them to let me put central air and heat down here.” They ran upstairs, and he opened the woodstove with a clang. “Go take your shower.”
Georgia hesitated in the open bathroom doorway. “You’ll be cold. Sure you don’t want to go first?”
Embers flared in the stove, mimicking the ones in Peter’s eyes as he looked over his shoulder. “If I warm myself, it’s not going to be with hot water.”
Tempting the devil, she pasted an innocent expression on her face. “That’s good, because I wasn’t planning on leaving any for you.”
The stove clanged. She squeaked and stepped back to slam the bathroom door. Too late. Peter muscled through, crowding her toward the shower enclosure.
A playful energy hummed between them, but her body took the fight-or-flight moment seriously. One hand fluttered to her throat as she backed away. She saw her reflection in the mirror, eyes wide, hair limp, and clothes hanging like wet dishrags. Her confidence flagged.
“Get undressed.” The quiet rumble of his command settled her attention on him.
“Help me?” For some ridiculous reason, she wanted his hands on her for this unveiling. He’d never looked at her. Really looked at her.
Without breaking her stare, he slid her jacket off and let it drop to the floor as she kicked off her sneakers. He reached past her to turn on the shower. The water’s wet hiss filled the room. When his fingers went to the hem of her shirt, she lifted her arms, and he pulled the garment over her head. He tossed it to the floor, where it landed with a wet plop.
Georgia dipped her head to watch him trace lazy fingers over the contour of her bra. She murmured her approval when he cupped one breast and squeezed gently. He skimmed her waist, then her belly, heating her chilled skin with his palm as he went. A tug at her button and a pull at her zipper loosened the soaked jeans from her skin. She shivered, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead as he bent to peel her pants from her legs. Denim stuck to her thighs, proving stubborn. She curled her fingers over his muscled shoulder when he crouched to encourage her jeans lower. Heat blew out of a vent in the ceiling in a delicious blast, warming her bared skin.
Peter stood and made quick work of his clothing while she watched in her damp bra and panties. His hands jerked against his buttoned cuffs. Thread popped as he yanked out his hands and threw the shirt to the growing pile. Though she’d seen him—all of him—yesterday and this morning, she hadn’t had the time to appreciate his magnificence.
The sight of him lifting his undershirt over his head was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen. Taut abs rippled with the upward motion as he revealed heavy pecs and spectacularly defined shoulders. A dark trail of hair led the way to southerly climes and disappeared at his waistband.
Darkened from their roll in the snow, his jeans outlined the slanted ridge of his cock. From her view yesterday, she knew he’d be wide. From their interlude the night before last, she knew he’d stretch her until she felt every ridge, every pulse of his arousal against her core. As she shed her underthings, he pushed down his jeans, and his erection bobbed to the forefront, taking center stage.
And oh what a glorious performer. Blue veins snaked around and down from under the head, where a bead of moisture perched. She swirled a hesitant fingertip over the slick spot. His cock leaped as she spread the dew. When she gripped him, Peter’s hips jerked, but otherwise he remained still, his hands at his sides, and let her explore.
Velvet over steel—she’d read the description in countless romances she’d snuck from the library—but until she held Peter in her hand, she’d thought the expression corny. At present, it seemed the most apt phrase in the world. Hard heat, covered in incongruous softness, fascinated her as she explored down the ridges and contours of his shaft and gently cupped the weight of his balls beneath.
“The water will get cold,” he said, his voice raspy with need.
Steam wafted around them, filling the bathroom, leaving a sheen on Peter’s skin. Georgia released him and let him guide her into the shower. The spray massaged her shoulders, and she tipped her head to wet her hair. Warmth sank into her skin. Went straight to her bones. Peter, hands slippery with soap, smoothed his palms over her breasts, cupping and squeezing. Tugs of pleasure rippled straight to her clit, and she gasped.
“Lean against the wall, hands above your head,” he commanded.
Without thought, she obeyed, and he soaped his way down her belly and around her hips as she stared down at him. When he reached the backs of her knees, she giggled.
He smiled up at her, water droplets beading on his lashes. “Ticklish there?”
She nodded.
His hum was noncommittal, but she knew he tucked the information away for later. The thought that there might be a later—more than one time—with this man who guarded his heart behind an iron fortress made her blood sing.
Peter slipped his hands down her calves to her instep. Gentle pressure lifted her foot from the floor to the shower bench, opening her to him. She swallowed hard and steadied herself with the hand on his shoulder.
“One thing about me and payback?” Hands at her hips, he pinned her in place and murmured against her sex. “I like to take my time…and I can afford the interest.”
Thank God they were in the shower. Otherwise, the flood of moisture that slicked her sex at his sultry threat would’ve mortified her. As it was, she knew he tasted her juices when he slipped his tongue into her center. She moaned and let her head fall back. Hands threaded in his wet hair, she held on as he breached her again.
The slow, sensual tongue fuck renewed the shaking in her limbs. Tension gathered in her clit as Peter spread and raked her sensitive inner tissues again and again. Lingual gymnastics were this man’s forte, and he applied his best routine to her, sucking and pulling at her outer lips and spreading slick heat back to her edges. When her knees sagged, he balanced her thigh on his shoulder and forced her to stand. She rolled her head side to side against the hard tile. Please. He had to touch her. Had to make her come.
“Sh, baby.” The hum of his voice against her sex made her hips spasm.
Releasing her leg, he stood and lowered his forehead to hers. Water cascaded down his skin, spattering her with the overflow. “You warmed up?”
She nodded, too breathless to speak. He kissed her, the salty-sweet taste of her juices on his mouth.
“Good,” he said.
Another kiss, this one accompanied by a lightly pressured bite, then he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her to face the wall.
“No.” She stiffened and looked at him over her shoulder, remembering the last time they’d had sex—how she’d wanted to watch his face as he came. How she’d wanted him to kiss her after. “I want to see you.”
He nuzzled her ear. “I didn’t realize you had such specific tastes. I hadn’t planned to spank you there, but if you insist…”
Georgia gasped, bringing her head up. Peter was quicker, pinning both her wrists above her head in one of his own as he smoothed the other down her thigh and lifted her leg onto the bench once more. She breathed so hard her breath came in little gasps. Arousal and fear coiled together and tightened to form a knot.
He cupped her pussy, and she stared at him with a mixture of trepidation and desire. God, the things this man did to her. She sagged, and he tugged on her wrists, holding her upright as he slipped one finger along the seam of her sex and dipped inside. The hardness of his cock against her belly registered as a sensual promise. Vibrations shook her.
“So wet,” he murmured. “So sweet.”
The first slap of his hand, light and full, landed against her mound with a wet thwap. She jumped and gasped his name.
“That’s right.” He tugged her ear between his teeth and growled his approval. “Feels good?”
She mewled, both dreading and inviting the next love tap. The full contact to every heightened nerve ending forced another cry from between her lips. Nothing outside the spray of water and the heat of Peter’s body and breath existed between each fall of his hand.
“This what you wanted?” He tapped a staccato rhythm with his fingers, without lifting the heel of his hand from her pubic bone.
Frissons of electric pleasure snaked from Georgia’s clit to her belly. Her hips jerked. This was not at all the sort of spanking she’d pictured. It was oh so much better. Peter had her dancing on the head of a pin. His angel to command.
“Please.” She begged, thrusting her hips forward, too far gone to feel shame.
“Since you ask so nicely…” He pushed two fingers inside her and curled them against the place where pressure built the most. A series of harder shoves nestled his palm against her clit and raked her G-spot in quick succession.
She keened as her knees buckled. Only his hands held her up, one at her wrists and the other at her apex. The sound of her breath rushing in and out and the pulse of blood rushing to her core overtook her awareness. Nerves fired, and her hips jerked as she cried out with her orgasm. Peter’s palm and fingers continued their rapid-fire rhythm, forcing her orgasm to unimaginable heights until there was no oxygen left to feed her cries.
He brought her down with soft kisses and murmured reassurances as he removed his fingers from her body. She felt empty without him, but languid limbs and lack of adequate breath discouraged any protest. The water turned off. He lifted her from the shower, carrying her to the bed, where he dried her on his lap.
One arm looped over his shoulder, she let him take care of her before he tucked her between the covers and smoothed back her hair. A kiss to her forehead encouraged her lids to flutter closed.
When she roused from her catnap, she sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest, and looked around. The loft was empty. She was alone. The fire crackled in the woodstove, telling her Peter couldn’t have been gone long. She reached up to pat her hair. Still damp. Her hand fell to her side.
Damn. He’d done it again. Loved her and left her. Fists clenched, she stalked to the bath, where she found a brush. Yanking the snarls out of her hair, she silently cursed. How could she be so stupid to read what they’d done as lovemaking? To believe he might be falling for her? She lowered the brush slowly as heat rushed to her cheeks. Staring at her reflection, wide-eyed with kiss-swollen lips, she shook her head.
“You are in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.”
She flung the brush to the counter, applied light makeup, and found her clothes. Dressing, she rehearsed what she’d do when she saw Peter in a few moments—no doubt he’d gone across the way to his parents’ house. The girlfriend thing was all an act, so she’d play the part. To the hilt. He wanted no strings and easy? He’d get it.
Not bothering with a jacket, she trudged across the yard and burst into an empty kitchen, where she took off her damp shoes. Sounds of laughter and the first few notes of a piano drifted from the next room. Georgia caught the honey-dark notes of Peter’s voice as he said something she couldn’t quite hear. Suddenly shy, she paused, one hand on the swinging door.
“‘Silent Night’?” Liam asked.
“‘Twelve Days of Christmas’!” Niall chimed in with his preference.
“No way. You always take the part of Miss Piggy on the five golden rings line.” The scowl in Liam’s voice was apparent even through the swinging door separating Georgia from the living room.
“Boys, it’s Peter’s birthday. Why don’t you play what he wants?” Brenna said.
Georgia widened her eyes. Oh bugger. His birthday? She glanced to the counter and saw a chocolate-frosted layer cake with Happy Birthday, Peter in white piping on top. How could she be his PA or his girlfriend and not know? Apparently father and son shared birthdays close enough to one another and to Christmas that the family gathered in the week before to celebrate the season and the occasion.
The first notes of “The Little Drummer Boy” floated from the living room. The males in the family chimed in, Peter’s voice reverberating clearly in their midst, proving him too good to be true. No one man could be so magnificent. Georgia pushed the door open, intending only to peek. Peter stared directly at her, his voice lifted in song, his siblings and parents gathered around him.
Wearing a charcoal wool sweater and red turtleneck, he appeared the picture of sin and saintliness. Around the room, boxes of ornaments lay scattered, some with their lids off. Christmas cookies, chocolates, and candied nuts formed a buffet on the coffee table. Georgia took in all this along with the sound of Peter’s voice and his family’s easy togetherness and swallowed down a lump of coal Santa would’ve been proud to bestow on the surliest of children.
Overwhelmed, she tried to step back. Peter caught her gaze once more, ensnaring her where she stood. He broke from the family group and greeted her with a lingering kiss that tasted of rum and nutmeg. Eggnog. The song came to an end, and someone coughed. Peter pulled away and drew her into the room by one hand. Shyness, an emotion she hadn’t struggled with since grade school, stole over her.
“Did you have a nice nap?” Brenna met them, offering a mug of cocoa.
Georgia grasped the mug and smiled. “I did.”
“Have the eggnog instead of cocoa, Georgia.” Niall flopped onto the couch and stretched out his long legs. “Kevin’s flat notes sound better if you’re sloshed.”
Georgia giggled into her mug.
Lips pursed, Brenna glared in warning at her youngest son.
“What, Ma?” Palms up, Niall feigned innocence. “She’ll hear for herself in a minute.”
Taking the cushion next to his brother, Kevin toed Niall’s ankle. “Shut up, Mouse.”
“Mouse?” Georgia chuckled at the nickname.
Peter made a funny noise in the back of his throat, close to a laugh. “Yeah…Mouse.”
“Shut up.” Sinking into the couch, Niall seemed to diminish by one-third his size.
Liam averted an argument, swooping in with the “Jingle Bells” refrain. Fingers flying over the piano keys, he added flourishes to the song, while Ronan’s deep voice melded with his son’s. Brenna, humming along, opened a box of ornaments.
She held one out to Georgia. “Care to help us trim the tree?”
“Yes, please.” Georgia took the delicate ornament and stared at its handblown colors and quaint imperfections.
Peter lifted more balls from the same box. Similar in size, the ones he chose were coated in white and silver glitter. Georgia approached the tree and studied the barren spaces between already hanging decorations. Colored lights and a string of gold beads were the only consistent element tying together the jumble of mismatched ornaments. Each one, she bet, had a story. Hesitating, she looked for a space to hang the ornament she held. Was there any right or wrong method to this activity?
“You look as if you never hung an ornament before,” Peter said, his focus on the higher branches where he deftly hung first one ornament and then the next. When she remained quiet, he looked down at her, the smile fading from his face. “You have decorated a tree before?”
Georgia shook her head so slightly she knew only Peter caught the movement.
Peter stared down at her. “Never?”
Certain she’d waded into emotional waters way over her head, she fought back visions visited on her by the ghost of Christmases past and tried to focus on the moment.
“Here,” he said softly, reaching for her ornament and giving a demonstration. “You loop it over any empty branch and pinch the wire a little like so.”
He brushed the branch, releasing the scent of pungent spruce. The ornament bobbed, and she drank in the sight of Peter doing something so normal and homey as decorating a Christmas tree.
“Thank you.”
Leaning down, he kissed her. Just a peck. When he lifted his head, he brushed his thumb along her lower lip. “I guess we all have stuff we miss out on.”
“Guess so.” Looking around the living room stuffed with family and overflowing with memories, she couldn’t imagine that he’d lacked for anything. Not now, or ever.
If only this dream bubble weren’t guaranteed to burst, she’d have willingly given up every cent of her inheritance to have a fairy-tale happily ever after with Peter. To never have to leave this family and the home they represented. Instead, she’d go back to her tower, and he’d ride off with some five-thousand-a-night evil stepsister. Didn’t it just figure? She’d jumped feet first into the Brothers Grimm version of her life.