Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Oh God.
“There you are.”
My feet disappear from beneath me, and I’m suddenly bobbing up and down, draped across a pair of hard, strong arms. I swiftly remember to breath and take in air urgently, clinging to his neck as he fights his way through.
We break free of the hustle, being spat out of the chaos onto the bottom of my street, and Dec sets me on my heels, checking me over, as if making sure I’m still in one piece. I would never have taken that route without him. I would have diverted around everything busy and Christmassy. “Your coat,” I breathe, reaching for my shoulders as if to demonstrate it’s not there.
“I don’t care about the coat.” Picking up my hands off my shoulders, he holds them between us. “I care about you.”
“You do?” I ask on a breathy whisper, my panic wilting under the force of my hope.
“Are you that numb you haven’t felt it yet?”
He’s not particularly emotional, doesn’t give much away, but I can read him. I hear him. Feel him. Sense him when he’s close.
“No,” I admit. “Because I don’t feel numb around you.”
He shudders with his exhale, nodding as if in understanding, though I know he couldn’t possibly. Dec is together. Stable. He’s everything I want to be but can’t.
Silently, he tucks me into his side and walks me slowly down the street, and my heart sinks with every step in the knowledge that my time with him is coming to an end again. I’m no longer anticipating a martini at my lips and a stranger as my distraction. My vice has changed. Now, it’s becoming a matter of surviving in between the interludes of Dec.
Outside my building, he turns me to face him and takes his time conjuring up whatever it is he wants to say. So when his simply lifts my hand and kisses the back before wandering off, I’m more than confused.
The rumble of the unspoken is starting to get too loud.
I sigh, caught between elation and despair, as I stand on the pavement watching him getting farther and farther away. The despair’s winning. I should be full of hope, clinging to it. But the moment he walks away like that, the loneliness returns. And that frightens me. Because I can’t control Dec. I can’t rely on something I’m not in control of.
I’m in control of the martinis. They’re solid, dependable. I’m in control of my career. I huff a little, correcting myself. I thought I was in control of my career. Thomas is squashing that notion more each day. But I can pull it back. I can drag Thomas into line.
Dec, though?
Does this have a shelf life? Should I depend on something that I can’t depend on?
I can’t afford to lose again. My heart won’t take it.
“Are you that numb you haven’t felt it yet?”
Detachment.
It’s safer.
Nothing can hurt you if you don’t let it close enough.
Problem is, Dec’s already close. Closer than I’m comfortable with. It’s easy to forget that when he’s saturating my senses with his beauty and cold gentleness.
Except . . . he keeps walking away from me.
December 9th
My legs work like pistons as I run through the park, the cold, gusting wind coming at me making me work harder.
Don’t get close.
Easier said than done when what you’re trying to avoid is the positive to your negative. The most powerful magnet. Except he walked away after kissing me. Will he call?
Don’t get close.
I growl under my breath, pumping my legs harder, faster, wanting to pound the conflict away. I don’t stop sprinting at the end of the park pathway. Not even when I approach Pret. Or when I make it back to Camden.
I keep running until I make it to my apartment, my lungs burning, my body dripping.
“Camryn, are you trying to run yourself to death?” Mr. Percival asks as I hang on to the railings that flank the path to our building, my breathing loud and strained. “My God, girl, you’re as red as a beetroot.”
I can’t even talk, unable to draw in air to get any words out. So I flap a hand, reassuring him I’m fine. That’s debatable. My heart’s booming in my ears, blood whooshing, making my hearing crackle.
My hands squeezing the icy, black iron spear tips of the bars, my arms braced, I lift my head, my face hot with the blood in my cheeks. “Morning,” I puff, my chest tight. Christ, am I going to have a heart attack? “I’m okay.”
He shakes his head, the wiry hair of both his eyebrows meeting in the middle when they pinch together. “You young folk,” he mutters, hobbling along with the help of his walking frame. “Obsessing about the extra pounds you’re going to put on over the holidays with all the mince pies and eggnog. We didn’t worry about that in my day.”