Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
I’ve got this.
I dry off, then brush my hair and dry it, scooping it up automatically. I pause for thought. Then release it, combing through with my fingers before slipping into my prised Victoria Beckham pencil dress. A total extravagance, but the colour brought me to my knees—a kind of creamy oyster—and I can wear it all day without getting one teeny-tiny crease.
As I’m leaving the gym, Clark calls. “Hey,” I say, crossing the road to the station.
“Want a ride?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on,” he drones. “We’re going to the same place. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous. I can expense it. It’s an hour on the train, which gives me time to email some clients and write some reports. If I ride with you, I’ll arrive with an earache after you’ve unsuccessfully tried to convince me I should be working for the family business.”
“I promise I won’t talk to you.”
I smile, hovering outside the Tube station rather than descending into the bowels of London and losing my network. “I don’t believe you.”
“How was Sunday?” he asks.
“I’m not allowed to talk to you about Sunday.” It was lovely. Wine, dresses, table plans. Plus, I was able to wangle Abbie and Charley an invite to the hen party.
“I’m not talking about the wedding. You and Dad.”
“We’re fine,” I assure him. “He did what our dad does, and I accepted his non-apology.” Which was a guilty smile, a hug, a pat on the back, and a kiss in my hair. Because we’ll do it all over again next week, or perhaps the week after, when he forgets himself and tries to fix my life that doesn’t need fixing.
“But you’re still living at Abbie’s?”
“Yes, until something comes up.”
“And Mum’s okay with that?”
“When I lived with them, I left before they got up, and I saw them for an hour before bed, if I wasn’t working late or out with the girls. She won’t miss me.” We both know that’s not true. I suppose I’m justifying it to myself. But I shouldn’t punish Mum because of Dad’s loose lips. She likes knowing I’m around, even if I’m not around. But, honestly, it’s like running the gauntlet of judgments every time I step foot in their house. And I’m thirty. That’s one thing Dad was right about. It’s unhealthy living with my parents. Not much healthier living with my best friend. God, I hope something comes up soon. “Listen, I’m hanging around outside the station just so you can make me feel guilty.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty. I want you to come work for . . . with me.”
“You’re deluded. How many times was Dad in the office last week?”
“Twice. Maybe three times. Or was it four?”
“Clark,” I breathe tiredly.
“Okay, it was five.”
I laugh. “So technically, even if Dad’s retired and has handed the reins to you, you still work for him.”
“Not for long, but it needs a delicate approach.”
I can’t argue with that. All Dad’s known is the family business. He’s struggling to find his place in life beyond that. Mum’s always been the homemaker, Dad the breadwinner. “It’s his birthday soon. How about we sign him up for golf lessons?” I suggest.
“Fuck yes. Brilliant idea. You look into that. Let me know how much I owe you.”
“I will.”
“Let me at least pick you up from the station at the other end so you don’t have to piss around with a cab to the hotel.”
“Fine,” I relent. “My train gets in at eight fifteen.”
“I’ll be there.”
Halfway down the steps, my phone rings again, and I stop when I see an out-of-town number. “Hello?”
“Morning.”
My body instantly tenses, a man catching my shoulder as he dashes past me down the steps. Hang up. Hang up. And my current state, hot and bothered, heart racing, is exactly why I need to avoid this guy. I’ve suddenly forgotten where I’m going, who I am. With just one word. The last time he talked to me, he nearly brought me to orgasm.
“This isn’t your mobile number.”
“No, it’s not. You’re not answering calls from my mobile, so I thought I’d try calling you from a different line.”
He’s crafty. “Now’s really not a good time.” I turn and walk back up the steps, getting out of the way of the commuters.
“But this coming Saturday works, so you’ll come to dinner with me.”
My God, I’ve never come across such an indomitable man. So much for my conclusion that he’s backed off. “Aren’t you hearing what I’m saying to you?”
“I’m hearing, Amelia. You want me.”
At those very words, a powerful throb hits me between my thighs. I look around me, at the chaos on the London street. Silence. Just his words bouncing around in my mind.
“Saturday,” he repeats.
“No.”
“Fucking hell, Amelia,” he breathes, completely exasperated. “It’s just dinner.”
“Is it?” I ask on a laugh. “Because your approach to this point would suggest otherwise.”