Breathe Me Smith and Belle (Royals Saga #11) - Geneva Lee

1

Smith

The path to hell was paved with remodeling dust. I stepped over a precariously abandoned wood saw and made my way past two men arguing over grout for the backsplash. If I wasn’t careful I would be drawn into the sodding debate. I’d had enough arguing in my ten years as a lawyer to know that some battles aren't worth fighting, particularly when it came to tiles. I only had one thing on my mind—one person, actually—and I didn’t care to speak to anyone before I saw her. It never sat well to leave my wife, Belle, alone with an entire construction crew for the day. First, she had a tendency to add more work to the project, which was already well-past due, but, mostly, because I coveted her. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her. It was that I wanted her all to myself. The last few days I’d had to share her with ten crew members, a foreman, and the rest of the household staff. Gone were the honeymoon days of fucking her two steps into the entryway of our London townhouse. I knew that when I pushed to move to the country. I just hadn’t expected that finding her in all the chaos would be as daunting as finding a moment alone.

For five months, we’d sought the perfect estate to call home, butting heads at every turn. Our wishlist had turned out to be a collection of opposite needs and wants. She wanted a homey feel. I wanted a modern kitchen. She insisted on a swimming pool. I hated them. She wanted to be within an hour’s drive of London or less. I wanted to take her as far from that city as possible. I’d never voiced that particular desire out of a well-honed sense of self-preservation. I had no doubt Belle suspected that I wanted her away from not only the city’s chaos but also her circle of friends. I loved them like an extended family almost as much as she did, but being best friends with the monarchy meant having a target on our backs. It was time for a new chapter. We’d agreed on that much if we argued about everything else.

The only option, in the end, had been to buy something that checked as many boxes as possible and rip apart what didn’t work. Thornham Park had been built in the late sixteenth century, updated every few decades to include the latest conveniences like plumbing and electricity as well as the passing whims of its various owners. Its location in Sussex might not have been far enough from London for my liking, but it had everything else she wanted, meaning it would fulfill the only item I saw as non-negotiable: moving out of London.

As it turned out, five months of fighting with a hormonal, pregnant woman paled in comparison to dealing with contractors. I began to suspect this was part of her plan the whole time. As long as half the house was in ruins, we kept finding ourselves back at our home in Holland Park.

A quick search of the grounds yielded no results. I wouldn’t have blamed Belle for trying to get away from the house, given the persistent cacophony of drills, hammers, and saws billowing from the kitchen. The remodel was nearly complete, but it would be months before we’d finished updating the entire estate. Our focus had been on the most important elements of our home: our bedroom and bath, the kitchen and living areas, and, of course, the nursery. We’d been coming back and forth the last few weeks. Belle had been taking her goddaughter, Elizabeth, a couple days a week to help her best friend out, and I’d been wrapping up the last of our affairs in London. With the baby due any day, I’d finally convinced her to move the bulk of her belongings here. Now, I just had to convince her to stay put more than an evening at a time.

Twenty minutes later, I had no choice but to check my least favorite amenity of our new home: the pool. It has felt like a cosmic joke to finally find the perfect country house within a short drive to London—Belle’s demand—but with the security features I’d insisted upon, only to discover it came with a sodding pool in its basement. The coincidence left a bad taste in my mouth. My family’s home in Kensington, the house I’d grown up in after leaving Scotland when my father took