Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 740(@200wpm)___ 592(@250wpm)___ 493(@300wpm)
“Emmy says Les Simpsons is brain rot,” Sylvie declares.
“Does she?” Funny. I seem to remember us both watching it when we were younger. “Well, I’m sure Emmy would know better than me.”
“Yes, Emmy would know,” the little girl says with a nod. “She is very clever. She sewed back the eyes on my favorite bear. And she helps me with my homework.”
“She helps you with coloring in,” Felix mutters with derision.
“Because I don’t like coloring in, and Emmy does! Do you like coloring in, Primrose?”
“Well—”
“What about fishing? And the sea? Do you like to swim in the sea?”
“I’ve never been fishing.”
“Papa will teach you when you come to Mallorca—he is the best!”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not coming to Mallorca with you.”
“But Papa said so.”
“Your father is mistaken.” My smile feels wooden as I fight the urge to look his way. Nope, no way. This is not happening, no matter what you say, M. LDH.
“But Papa never makes mistakes.” She blinks earnestly.
“Everybody makes mistakes,” I murmur, reaching for my water glass.
“Please may I be excused?” Felix, uninterested in the sudden atmosphere at the dinner table, looks to his father. “I need to be online with my friends in five minutes.”
“Not too late,” his father instructs.
“But there is no school tomorrow.”
In the place of an answer, M. LDH sends him an eloquent look.
“Entendu.” Understood, Felix capitulates grumpily. As he leaves the room, I find myself wondering how often that quelling look works for him. If he thinks it’s going to work on me, he’s in for a shock.
“I will go to get the bird fruit from Zoe,” Sylvie announces, sliding down from her chair. “Please may I be excused, Papa?” she adds laughingly, already at the door, and not waiting for a response.
“Why would you tell them that?” I hiss immediately.
“Because it’s true,” he says, reaching for his wine glass. “We leave Monday.”
“You might be leaving Monday for Mallorca, but I’ll be heading in a different direction.”
“As far away as possible?” The corner of his mouth quirks.
“Farther, if I can help it.” My smile is saccharine sweet. As in fake. The only thing keeping my bum in this chair is how happy Emmy sounded on the phone earlier. And relieved. There’s no way I’m going to let her down. But equally, I’m not putting myself through weeks of being near him.
“The time will come when you can put this family behind you and never think of us again. But that time is not now.”
“You put the d in delusional.” I plonk my glass down, cross one leg over the other, and fold my arms across my chest for good measure. How can this man be so good with his mouth, and also so vile with it? I’m not supposed to be thinking about his mouth and its many talents.
“You want to keep Emmy’s position open for her return.”
“That’s why I’m staying for the weekend,” I retort through gritted teeth.
“Sadly, that no longer suits me.”
“Sadly, I don’t give a f-stuff. Your summer plans are not my problem.”
“I disagree.” For someone speaking perfect English, he gives a very Gallic shrug.
“I don’t care,” I say, mimicking the action. Exaggerating it even, one hand in the air, palm skyward. Bof! I’m basically a beret, striped T-shirt, and a string of onions away from really taking the piss.
But I shouldn’t let him goad me into this kind of behavior. It’s not like he’s the first high-handed arsehole ever to cross my path. I’ve dealt with loads of idiot men with more money than taste while helping in Lavender’s art gallery, and I’ve suffered my fair set-downs from imperious consultants. And I always keep my cool—always!
I’m react like water flowing around those human obstacles. I rarely take offence and I never, ever get my dander up. Well, hardly ever. But with him, it’s personal—very personal. I think I could happily throttle him. Strangulation with a smile. I bet he’d be into that.
“Ah, but you do care.” His voice is soft as he reaches for his glass again, holding his wine to the light as though to study the pale contents.
“I care about my friend, which is why I’m giving up my weekend.”
“One month.”
“One month minus twenty-eight days.” I realize my jaw is painfully tight and that my foot is beginning to jump. He’s getting under my skin. “That’s what was agreed,” I say, placing both feet flat.
“Your agreement was with Emmy. Your agreement with me must be until Emmy returns, or for one month. Whichever comes first.”
“No can do.” I reach for my own glass. Again. “I have a job—”
“From September.”
How the heck does he know that? “I have plans.” I take a sip as something twists inside me, but it’s not anxiety that makes words shoot like bullets from my mouth. “My family is expecting me in Croatia.” Or they would be if I’d gotten around to texting them. As I glare at him, my heart bangs against my chest like it’s trying to escape, and my insides are awash with… something.