[18 + COMPLETED] Three men, two centuries, one house.
S U M M E R 2 0 2 1
Rosecrest Manor has been in Asher's family for generations, but he's done dealing with the headache of a property. He just needs to get his soon-to-be ex-wife on board with...
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Simon strolled into the Rosecrest Manor library to find Whitley pressed up against the window, peering through the hazy glass.
He cleared his throat. "Is there anything to see out there?"
Whitley jumped, spinning around with wide eyes, her hand flying to her chest.
"Simon!"
He smiled. "Whitley."
"You startled me."
"It was not my intention, my lady." Simon closed the space between them and sat next to her on the window seat. A quick glance through the panes told him there wasn't much to see out on the Rosecrest lawn.
Whitley seemed to notice the direction of his gaze.
"I was merely waiting for Blair to return. Everyone else arrived back from the morning ride except for her...and your brother."
She flashed a mischievous grin at Simon, and he couldn't contain himself. His smile grew even further.
"You are ridiculously delightful, Whitley Ash," he said.
A rosy flush came over her cheeks then, and Simon tried to ignore the deep-seated pride that something he said or did could cause her to redden so. She was affected by him, at least in some way. Simon should really like to learn of all the ways in which he could affect her, but it was probably best if he did not think of that.
Not now, anyway.
Later. Definitely later.
Whitley glanced shyly down, and Simon noticed for the first time that she was holding a journal of sorts. It was open in her lap, her neat penmanship scrolling across the pages.
"Practicing for when you have your very own gossip column?" Simon asked with a tilt of his head.
Whitley was fast to slam the journal shut and blink up at him with round, innocent eyes. "You could say that, yes," she muttered, her words coming out far too quickly, the sounds of each letter blending together in a sigh.
Simon rose a brow. Her eyes might be innocent, but everything else about her—how she was strumming her fingers against the closed journal, how her body leaned awkwardly forward as if attempting to hide the little book from view, how she was biting her bottom lip—it all told Simon that Whitley was quite guilty. Of something. But what?
"What are the chances that you should allow me to read it, Whitley?"
Her eyes grew rounder, wider, and decidedly less innocent.
"Quite slim."
Simon repressed an amused grin.
"Perhaps you would like to show my mother? She would love to read it, I am sure. She could share some advice on the matter, I suppose."
